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FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


The “Mystery” Library 

EDITED BY 

J. WALKER McSPADDEN 

FAMOUS GHOST STORIES 
FAMOUS PSYCHIC STORIES 
FAMOUS DETECTIVE STORIES 
FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 

A Library of quite unusual tales 
culled from the most powerful writers, 
chiefly American, English, and French. 
Each book contains special introduction. 

Thomas Y. Crowell Co., New York 





FAMOUS 

MYSTERY STORIES 


EDITED BY 

J. WALKER McSPADDEN 

Editor of “Famous Ghost Stories,” “Famous 
Psychic Stories,” "Famous Detective 
Stories,” etc. 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 







Copyright, 1922, 

By THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 



^SI.A6$ 1013 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 


CONTENTS 


The Spectre of Tappington . 

The Mysterious Sketch 

The Deserted House . . . 

The Adelantado of the Seven 
Cities. 

The Pipe. 

The Upper Berth .... 

The Diamond Lens . . . . 

The Horla. 

The Mummy’s Foot .... 

The Thief. 


Richard Harris Barham . 

PAGE 

I 

Erckmann-Chatrian 

• 34 

Ernest T. W. Hofmann . 

• 58 

Washington Irving 

. 86 

Anonymous .... 

. no 

F. Marion Crawford . 

• 139 

Fitz-Jantes O'Brien 

. 172 

Guy de Maupassant 

. 210 

Theophile Gautier . 

. 248 

Anna Katharine Green 

. 266 


v 












































































•Hi. 






























INTRODUCTION 


“Famous Mystery Stories” completes a tetralogy 
begun a few years ago with “Ghost Stories” and 
continued with “Detective” and “Psychic Stories.” 
The responsive chord that each successive volume 
has struck has emboldened the editor to continue a 
line of research which has revealed many fascinat¬ 
ing channels. A mass of enticing material has been 
brought to light, which would fill many books of the 
present size; and the problem has been one of selec¬ 
tion and elimination. The group of four books now 
complete under the title of the “The Mystery Li¬ 
brary,” while in no sense an anthology of the subject, 
will be found to contain many typical examples of 
the bizarre and unusual, culled from the ablest pens 
of America and Europe. 

It is interesting to note the different methods of 
approach to your true mystery story. Every such 
tale conceals a definite problem which may or may 
not be solved; and when tested in the crucible of 
widely divergent minds, the result is of value from 
more than one aspect. 

In the present volume the reader will find repre¬ 
sentative stories from American, English, Irish, 
French and German writers. Aside from the indi¬ 
vidual merit of each tale, they afford a striking study 
in contrasts, both in style and method of approach. 
By way of illustration, no two stories could be more 



vili INTRODUCTION 

dissimilar in treatment than the French and German 
examples herewith included. “The Mysterious 
Sketch” by Erckmann-Chatrian, like its successor, 
“The Deserted House,” by Hoffmann, is an excel¬ 
lent type of pure mystery tale, with the mystery un¬ 
explained; but there the resemblance ends. The 
French joint authors are concerned only with a 
hypothetical case. An artist draws a fanciful sketch 
which proves to be the depiction of an actual tragedy. 
Its effect upon the artist himself, rather than the 
how and why of the drawing, is the concern of the 
story. Hoffmann’s tale also presents a definite prob¬ 
lem which is only half explained. It is a fantasy 
with a touch of psychology, and affords its own 
raison d’etre. “Hoffmann preferred to remain a 
riddle to himself,” wrote a friend, “a riddle which 
he always dreaded to have solved.” 

Three stories involving a vein of humor are “The 
Spectre of Tappington,” that delightful skit from 
“The Ingoldsby Legends”; Irving’s tale of the 
Adelantado who sought the lost cities of the Spanish 
Main; and “The Pipe.” Each may be commended 
as an after-dinner solace, “The Pipe” providing a 
pleasant “smoke” although not altogether harmless 
in its effects. It is by our old friend, Anonymous, 
who has given us some of the best examples of lit¬ 
erature in every age. Irving on his part is always 
like a draught of ruddy wine; and in the adventures 
of the misguided Adelantado we are reminded of 
our old friend Rip Van Winkle. The author him¬ 
self is not concerned with a mystery per se, but is 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


indulging in a characteristic flight of fancy tinged 
with a quiet, ironical humor. 

By way of contrast come a grisly tale of the sea 
from the masterly pen of F. Marion Crawford. In 
“The Upper Berth” he weaves a mystery of horror 
and haunting fear. It is redolent of stagnant sea¬ 
water and slimy sea-weeds. He is a hardened reader 
indeed who can read a yarn such as this without a 
shudder. And yet the reader is led deliberately on 
to the final climax. Unlike other mysteries it does 
not depend for its power upon the unexpected. The 
narrator says in effect, “Gentlemen, prepare for a 
shock!”—and his audience are shocked nevertheless. 

“The Diamond Lens,” by Fitz-James O’Brien, 
is a classic of imagination raised to the nth degree. 
Through the manufacture of a microscope of incal¬ 
culable power, its possessor is enabled to discover 
worlds far beyond the ken of man, and to find therein 
lovely beings. The height of the fantastic is reached 
when the scientist falls in love with the tiny animal- 
cule-^truly a hopeless passion! On re-reading this 
story one is struck by the fact that even murder 
itself can be held subordinate to other elements in 
a piece of fiction. 

De Maupassant’s strange tale, “The Horla,” 
carries with it more than a literary interest. It has 
a certain autobiographical flavor. De Maupassant 
wielded one of the most powerful and versatile pens 
in France of the last half century, and yet had a 
morbid, haunting fear of going mad—a fear which 
was actually realized. “The Horla” is one of the 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


first vivid presentiments of a sinister personality 
overshadowing his own. In another story, “Lui,” 
not here included, he also reveals evidences of this 
overmastering terror. “I am afraid of the walls, 
of the furniture, of the familiar objects which seem 
to me to assume a kind of animal life. Above all 
I fear the horrible confusion of my thought, of my 
reason escaping, entangled and scattered by an in¬ 
visible and mysterious anguish.” 

A mystery story of more conventional type is that 
one by Anna Katharine Green, one of America’s 
most prolific writers in this vein. In “The Thief,” 
we have an example of circumstantial evidence, 
which wellnigh brings its victim to social and spiritual 
ruin. He is saved only by the faith of those who 
believe in him despite appearances. 

“The Mummy’s Foot,” by Gautier, is a delightful 
example of Gallic humor. Nothing could be more 
fanciful than the picture of the long-dead Egyptian 
princess coming to reclaim her foot, which was being 
used as a paper weight, and the assumption of its 
owner that he was thereby entitled to claim her hand. 

In the preparation of this work the editor has 
been constantly indebted to publishers and writers 
for the use of special material. Thanks are particu¬ 
larly due to The Macmillan Company and the heirs 
of F. Marion Crawford for permission to use his 
work; and to Dodd, Mead & Company and Anna 
Katharine Green, for the use of her story. 

Montclair, N. J. J* W* McS. 

March i, 1922, 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


By Richard Harris Barham 

“It is very odd, though; what can have become of 
them?” said Charles Seaforth, as he peeped under 
the valance of an old-fashioned bedstead, in an old- 
fashioned apartment of a still more old-fashioned 
manor-house; “’tis confoundedly odd, and I can’t 
make it out at all. Why, Barney, where are they?— 
and where the devil are you?” 

No answer was returned to this appeal; and the 
lieutenant, who was, in the main, a reasonable per¬ 
son—at least as reasonable a person as any young 
gentleman of twenty-two in “the service” can fairly 
be expected to be—cooled when he reflected that his 
servant could scarcely reply extempore to a sum¬ 
mons which it was impossible he should hear. 

An application to the bell was the considerate re¬ 
sult; and the footsteps of as tight a lad as ever put 
pipe-clay to belt, sounded along the gallery. 

“Come in!” said his master. An ineffectual at¬ 
tempt upon the door reminded Mr. Seaforth that he 
had locked himself in. “By Heaven! this is the odd- 

From “The Ingoldsby Legends, by Thomas Ingoldsby Esq.” 

i 


2 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


est thing of all,” said he, as he turned the key and 
admitted Mr. Maguire into his dormitory. 

“Barney, where are my pantaloons?” 

“Is it the breeches?” asked the valet, casting an 
inquiring eye round the apartment—“is it the 
breeches, sir?” 

“Yes; what have you done with them?” 

“Sure then your honor had them on when you went 
to bed, and it’s hereabout they’ll be, I’ll be bail;” 
and Barney lifted a fashionable tunic from a cane- 
backed arm-chair, proceeding in his examination. 
But the search was vain: there was the tunic afore¬ 
said; there was a smart-looking kerseymere waist¬ 
coat; but the most important article of all in a gentle¬ 
man’s wardrobe was still wanting. 

“Where can they be?” asked the master, with a 
strong accent on the auxiliary verb. 

“Sorrow a know I knows,” said the man. 

“It must have been the devil, then, after all, who 
has been here and carried them off!” cried Seaforth, 
staring full into Barney’s face. 

Mr. Maguire was not devoid of the superstition 
of his countrymen, still he looked as if he did not 
quite subscribe to the sequitur. 

His master read incredulity in his countenance. 
“Why, I tell you, Barney, I put them there, on that 
arm-chair, when I got into bed; and, by heaven! I 
distinctly saw the ghost of the old fellow they told 
me of, come in at midnight, put on my pantaloons, 
and walk away with them.” 

“May be so,” was the cautious reply. 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 3 

“I thought, of course, it was a dream; but then—- 
where the devil are the breeches?” 

The question was more easily asked than 
answered. Barney renewed his search, while the 
lieutenant folded his arms, and, leaning against the 
toilet, sank into a reverie. 

“After all, it must be some trick of my laughter- 
loving cousins,” said Seaforth. 

“Ah! then, the ladies!” chimed in Mr. Maguire, 
though the observation was not addressed to him; 
“and will it be Miss Caroline or Miss Fanny, that’s 
stole your honor’s things?” 

“I hardly know what to think of it,” pursued the 
bereaved lieutenant, still speaking in soliloquy, with 
his eye resting dubiously on the chamber-door. “I 
locked myself in, that’s certain; and—but there must 
be some other entrance to the room—pooh! I re¬ 
member—the private staircase; how could I be such 
a fool?” and he crossed the chamber to where a low 
oaken doorcase was dimly visible in a distant corner. 
He paused before it. Nothing now interfered to 
screen it from observation; but it bore tokens of hav¬ 
ing been at some earlier period concealed by tapestry, 
remains of which yet clothed the walls on either side 
the portal. 

“This way they must have come,” said Seaforth; 
“I wish with all my heart I had caught them!” 

“Och! the kittens!” sighed Mr. Barney Maguire. 

But the mystery was yet as far from being solved 
as before. True, there was the “other door”; but 
then that, too, on examination, was even more firmly 


4 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


secured than the one which opened on the gallery— 
two heavy bolts on the inside effectually prevented 
any coup de main on the lieutenant’s bivouac from 
that quarter. He was more puzzled than ever; nor 
did the minutest inspection of the walls and floor 
throw any light upon the subject; one thing only was 
clear—the breeches were gone! “It is very sing¬ 
ular,” said the lieutenant. 

Tappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is 
an antiquated but commodious manor-house in the 
eastern division of the county of Kent. A former 
proprietor had been high-sheriff in the days of Eliz¬ 
abeth, and many a dark and dismal tradition was 
yet extant of the licentiousness of his life, and the 
enormity of his offenses. The Glen, which the keep¬ 
er’s daughter was seen to enter, but never known to 
quit, still frowns darkly as of yore; while an in¬ 
eradicable bloodstain on the oaken stair yet bids de¬ 
fiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it 
is with one particular apartment that a deed of more 
especial atrocity is said to be connected. A stranger 
guest—so runs the legend—arrived unexpectedly at 
the mansion of the “bad Sir Giles.” They met in ap¬ 
parent friendship; but the ill-concealed scowl on their 
master’s brow told the domestics that the visit was 
not a welcome one; the banquet, however, was not 
spared; the wine cup circulated freely—too freely, 
perhaps, for sounds of discord at length reached the 
ears of even the excluded serving-men, as they were 
doing their best to imitate their betters in the lower 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


5 


hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach 
the parlor; one an old and favored retainer of the 
house, went so far as to break in upon his master’s 
privacy. Sir Giles, already high in oath, fiercely en¬ 
joined his absence, and he retired; not, however, be¬ 
fore he had distinctly heard from the stranger’s lips 
a menace that “there was that within his pockets 
which could disprove the knight’s right to issue that 
or any other command within the walls of Tapton.” 

The intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have 
produced a beneficial effect; the voices of the dis¬ 
putants fell, and the conversation was carried on 
thenceforth in a more subdued tone, till, as evening 
closed in, the domestics, when summoned to attend 
with lights, found not only cordiality restored, but 
that a still deeper carouse was meditated. Fresh 
stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced; 
nor was it till at a late, or rather early hour, that 
the revelers sought their chambers. 

The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first 
floor of the eastern angle of the building, and had 
once been the favorite apartment of Sir Giles him¬ 
self. Scandal ascribed this preference to the facility 
which a private staircase, communicating with the 
grounds, had afforded him, in the old knight’s time, 
of following his wicked courses unchecked by paren¬ 
tal observation; a consideration which ceased to be 
of weight when the death of his father left him un¬ 
controlled master of his estate and actions. From 
that period Sir Giles had established himself in what 
were called the “state apartments,” and the “oaken 


6 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


chamber” was rarely tenated, save on occasions of 
extraordinary festivity, or when the yule log drew 
an unusually large accession of guests around the 
Christmas hearth. 

On this eventful night it was prepared for the un¬ 
known visitor, who sought his couch heated and in¬ 
flamed from his midnight orgies, and in the morn¬ 
ing was found in his bed a swollen and blackened 
corpse. No marks of violence appeared upon the 
body; but the livid hue of the lips, and certain dark- 
colored spots visible on the skin, aroused suspicions 
which those who entertained them were too timid to 
express. Apoplexy, induced by the excesses of the 
preceding night, Sir Giles’s confidential leech pro¬ 
nounced to be the cause of his sudden dissolution. 
The body was buried in peace; and though some 
shook their heads as they witnessed the haste with 
which the funeral rites were hurried on, none ven¬ 
tured to murmur. Other events arose to distract the 
attention of the retainers; men’s minds became oc¬ 
cupied by the stirring politics of the day; while the 
near approach of that formidable armada, so vainly 
arrogating to itself a title which the very elements 
joined with human valor to disprove, soon interfered 
to weaken, if not obliterate, all remembrance of the 
nameless stranger who had died within the walls of 
Tapton Everard. 

Years rolled on: the “bad Sir Giles” had himself 
long since gone to his account, the last, as it was be¬ 
lieved, of his immediate line; though a few of the 
older tenants were sometimes heard to speak of an 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


7 


elder brother, who had disappeared in early life, and 
never inherited the estate. Rumors, too, of his hav¬ 
ing left a son in foreign lands, were at one time rife; 
but they died away, nothing occurring to support 
them; the property passed unchallenged to a collat¬ 
eral branch of the family, and the secret, if secret 
there were, was buried in Denton churchyard, in the 
lonely grave of the mysterious stranger. One cir¬ 
cumstance alone occurred, after a long-intervening 
period, to revive the memory of these transactions. 
Some workmen employed in grubbing an old plan¬ 
tation, for the purpose of raising on its site a modern 
shrubbery, dug up, in the execution of their task, 
the mildewed remnants of what seemed to have been 
once a garment. On more minute inspection, enough 
remained of silken slashes and a coarse embroid¬ 
ery, to identify the relics as having once formed part 
of a pair of trunk hose; while a few papers which 
fell from them, altogether illegible from damp and 
age, were by the unlearned rustics conveyed to the 
then owner of the estate. 

Whether the squire was more successful in de¬ 
ciphering them was never known; he certainly never 
alluded to their contents; and little would have been 
thought of the matter but for the inconvenient mem¬ 
ory of an old woman, who declared she heard her 
grandfather say, that when the “stranger guest” was 
poisoned, though all the rest of his clothes were 
there, his breeches, the supposed repository of the 
supposed documents, could never be found. The 
master of Tapton Everard smiled when he heard 


8 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Dame Jones’s hint of deeds which might impeach the 
validity of his own title in favor of some unknown 
descendant of some unknown heir; and the story was 
rarely alluded to, save by one or two miracle-mon¬ 
gers, who had heard that others had seen the ghost 
of Old Sir Giles, in his night-cap, issue from the 
postern, enter the adjoining copse, and wring his 
shadowy hands in agony, as he seemed to search ♦ 
vainly for something hidden among the evergreens. 
The stranger’s deathroom had, of course, been oc¬ 
casionally haunted from the time of his decease; but 
the periods of visitation had latterly become very 
rare—even Mrs. Botherby, the housekeeper, being 
forced to admit that during her long sojourn at the 
manor, she had never “met with anything worse than 
herself”; though, as the old lady afterwards added 
upon more mature reflection, “I must say I think I 
saw the devil once.” 

Such was the legend attached to Tapton Everard, 
and such the story which the lively Caroline In- 
goldsby detailed to her equally mercurial cousin, 
Charles Seaforth, lieutenant in the Hon. East India 
Company’s second regiment of Bombay Fencibles, as 
arm-in-arm they promenaded a gallery decked with 
some dozen grim-looking ancestral portraits, and, 
among others, with that of the redoubted Sir Giles 
himself. The gallant commander had that very 
morning paid his first visit to the house of his mater¬ 
nal uncle, after an absence of several years passed 
with his regiment on the arid plains of Hindoostan, 
whence he was now returned on a three years’ fur- 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


9 


lough. He had gone out a boy—he returned a man; 
but the impression made upon his youthful fancy by 
his favorite cousin remained unimpaired, and to 
Tapton he directed his steps, even before he sought 
the home of his widowed mother—comforting him¬ 
self in this breach of filial decorum by the reflection 
that, as the manor was so little out of his way, it 
would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door of 
his relatives, without just looking in for a few 
hours. 

But he found his uncle as hospitable, and his cousin 
more charming than ever; and the looks of one, and 
the requests of the other, soon precluded the possibil¬ 
ity of refusing to lengthen the “few hours” into a few 
days, though the house was at the moment full of 
visitors. 

The Peterses were there from Ramsgate; and 
Mr., Mrs., and the two Miss Simpkinsons, from 
Bath, had come to pass a month with the family; 
and Tom Ingoldsby had brought down his college 
friend, the Honorable Augustus Sucklethumbkin, 
with his groom and pointers, to take a fortnight’s 
shooting. And then there was Mrs. Ogleton, the 
rich young widow, with her large black eyes, who, 
people did say, was setting her cap at the young 
squire, though Mrs. Botherby did not believe it; 
and, above all, there was Mademoiselle Pauline, her 
femme de chambre, who “mon Dieu’d” everything 
and everybody, and cried “Quelle horreur!” at Mrs. 
Botherby’s cap. In short, to use the last-named and 
much-respected lady’s own expression, the house was 


10 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“choke-full” to the very attics—all save the “oaken 
chamber,” which, as the lieutenant expressed a most 
magnanimous disregard of ghosts, was forthwith ap¬ 
propriated to his particular accommodation. Mr. 
Maguire meanwhile was fain to share the apartment 
of Oliver Dobbs, the squire’s own man; a jocular 
proposal of joint occupancy having been first indig¬ 
nantly rejected by “Mademoiselle,” though pre¬ 
ferred with the “laste taste in life” of Mr. Barney’s 
most insinuating brogue. 

“Come, Charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; 
your breakfast will be quite spoiled; what can have 
made you so idle?” Such was the morning saluta¬ 
tion of Miss Ingoldsby to the militaire as he entered 
the breakfast-room half-an-hour after the latest of 
the party. 

“A pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appoint¬ 
ment with,” chimed in Miss Frances. “What is 
become of our ramble to the rocks before break¬ 
fast?” 

“Oh! the young men never think of keeping a 
promise now,” said Mrs. Peters, a little ferret-faced 
woman with underdone eyes. 

“When I was a young man,” said Mr. Peters, “I 
remember I always made a point of-” 

“Pray, how long ago was that?” asked Mr. Simp- 
kinson from Bath. 

“Why, sir, when I married Mrs. Peters, I was—^ 
let me see—I was-” 


“Do pray hold your tongue, P., and eat your 




THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


11 


breakfast!” interrupted his better half, who had a 
mortal horror of chronological references; “it’s very 
rude to tease people with your family affairs.” 

The lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in 
silence—a good-humored nod, and a glance, half- 
smiling, half-inquisitive, being the extent of his sal¬ 
utation. Smitten as he was, and in the immediate 
presence of her who had made so large a hole in his 
heart, his manner was evidently distrait, which the 
fair Caroline in her secret soul attributed to his being 
solely occupied by her agremens: how would she have 
bridled had she known that they only shared his 
meditations with a pair of breeches! 

Charles drank his coffee and spiked some half- 
dozen eggs, darting occasionally a penetrating glance 
at the ladies, in hope of detecting the supposed 
waggery by the evidence of some furtive smile or 
conscious look. But in vain; not a dimple moved 
indicative of roguery, nor did the slightest elevation 
of eyebrow rise confirmative of his suspicions. Hints 
and insinuations passed unheeded—more particular 
inquiries were out of the question—the subject was 
unapproachable. 

In the meantime, “patent cords” were just the 
thing for a morning’s ride; and, breakfast ended, 
away cantered the party over the downs, till, every 
faculty absorbed by the beauties, animate and inani¬ 
mate, which surrounded him, Lieutenant Seaforth 
of the Bombay Fencibles bestowed no more thought 
upon his breeches than if he had been born on the 
top of Ben Lomond. 


12 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Another night had passed away; the sun rose bril¬ 
liantly, forming with his level beams a splendid rain¬ 
bow in the far-off west, whither the heavy cloud, 
which for the last two hours had been pouring its 
waters on the earth, was now flying before him. 

“Ah! then, and it’s little good it’ll be the claning 
of ye,” apostrophized Mr. Barney Maguire, as he 
deposited, in front of his master’s toilet, a pair of 
“bran new” jockey boots, one of Hoby’s primest fits, 
which the lieutenant had purchased in his way 
through town. On that very morning had they come 
for the first time under the valet’s depurating hand, 
so little soiled, indeed, from the turfy ride of the pre¬ 
ceding day, that a less scrupulous domestic might 
perhaps have considered the application of “War¬ 
ren’s Matchless,” or oxalic acid, altogether super¬ 
fluous. Not so, Barney: with the nicest care had he 
removed the slightest impurity from each polished 
surface, and there they stood, rejoicing in their sable 
radiance. No wonder a pang shot across Mr. Ma¬ 
guire’s breast, as he thought on the work now cut 
out for them, so different from the light labors of 
the day before; no wonder he murmured with a sigh, 
as the scarce dried window-panes disclosed a road 
now inch deep in mud. “Ah! then, it’s little good 
the claning of ye!”—for well had he learned in the 
hall below that eight miles of a stiff clay soil lay 
between the manor and Bolsover Abbey, whose pic¬ 
turesque ruins, “Like ancient Rome, majestic in de¬ 
cay,” the party had determined to explore. The 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


13 


master had already commenced dressing, and the 
man was fitting straps upon a light pair of crane¬ 
necked spurs, when his hand was arrested by the old 
question—“Barney, where are the breeches?” 

They were nowhere to be found! 

Mr. Seaforth descended that morning, whip in 
hand, and equipped in a handsome green riding- 
frock, but no “breeches and boots to match” were 
there; loose jean trousers, surmounting a pair of di¬ 
minutive Wellingtons, embraced, somewhat incon¬ 
gruously, his nether man, vice the “patent cords,” re¬ 
turned, like yesterday’s pantaloons, absent without 
leave. The “top-boots” had a holiday. 

“A fine morning after the rain,” said Mr. Simp- 
kinson from Bath. 

“Just the thing for the ’ops,” said Mr. Peters. “I 
remember when I was a boy—” 

“Do hold your tongue, P.,” said Mrs. Peters—ad¬ 
vice which that exemplary matron was in the constant 
habit of administering to “her P.,” as she called him, 
whenever he prepared to vent his reminiscences. 
Her precise reason for this it would be difficult to 
determine, unless indeed, the story be true which a 
little bird had whispered into Mrs. Botherby’s ear 
—Mr. Peters, though now a wealthy man, had re¬ 
ceived a liberal education at a charity school, and was 
apt to recur to the days of his muffin-cap and leathers. 
As usual, he took his wife’s hint in good part, and 
“paused in his reply.” 

“A glorious day for the ruins!” said young In- 


14 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


goldsby. “But Charles, what the deuce are you 
about? you don’t mean to ride through our lanes 
in such toggery as that?” 

“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “won’t 
you be very wet?” 

“You had better take Tom’s cab,” quoth the squire. 

But this proposition was at once overruled; Mrs. 
Ogleton had already nailed the cab, a vehicle of all 
others the best adapted for a snug flirtation. 

“Or drive Miss Julia in the phaeton?” No; that 
was the post of Mr. Peters, who, indifferent as an 
equestrian, had acquired some fame as a whip while 
travelling through the midland countries for the firm 
of Bagshaw, Snivelby, and Grimes. 

“Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins,” said 
Charles, with as much nonchalance as he could as¬ 
sume—and he did so; Mr. Ingoldsby, Mrs. Peters, 
Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, and his eldest daughter 
with her album, following in the family coach. The 
gentleman-commoner “voted the affair d—d slow,” 
and declined the party altogether in favor of the 
gamekeeper and a cigar. “There was ‘no fun’ in 
looking at old houses!” Mrs. Simpkinson preferred 
a short sejour in the still-room with Mrs. Botherby, 
who had promised to initiate her in that grand ar¬ 
canum, the transmutation of gooseberry jam into 
Guava jelly. 

But what had become of Seaforth and his fair Car¬ 
oline all this while? Why, it so happened that they 
had been simultaneously stricken with the picturesque 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


15 


appearance of one of those high and pointed arches, 
which that eminent antiquary, Mr. Horseley Curties, 
has described in his “Ancient records,” as “a Gothic 
window of the Saxon order”; and then the ivy clus¬ 
tered so thickly and so beautifully on the other side, 
that they went round to look at that; and then their 
proximity deprived it of half its effect, and so they 
walked across to a little knoll, a hundred yards off, 
and in crossing a small ravine, they came to what 
in Ireland they call “a bad step,” and Charles had to 
carry his cousin over it; and then when they had to 
come back, she would not give him the trouble again 
for the world, so they followed a better but more 
circuitous route, and there were hedges and ditches 
in the way, and stiles to get over and gates to get 
through, so that an hour or more had elapsed be¬ 
fore they were able to rejoin the party. 

“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “how 
long you have been gone!” 

And so they had. The remark was a very just as 
well as a very natural one. They were gone a long 
while, and a nice cosy chat they had; and what do 
you think it was about, my dear miss? 

“O, lassy me! love no doubt, and the moon, and 
eyes, and nightingales, and-” 

Stay, stay, my sweet young lady; do not let the 
fervor of your feelings run away with you! I do not 
pretend to say, indeed, that one or more of these 
pretty subjects might not have been introduced; but 
the most important and leading topic of the confer¬ 
ence was—Lieutenant Seaforth’s breeches. 



16 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“Caroline,” said Charles, “I have had some very 
odd dreams since I have been at Tappington.” 

“Dreams, have you?” smiled the young lady, arch¬ 
ing her taper neck like a swan in pluming. “Dreams, 
have you?” 

“Ay, dreams—or dream, perhaps, I should say; 
for, though repeated, it was still the same. And 
what do you imagine was its subject?” 

“It is impossible for me to divine,” said the 
tongue:—“I have not the least difficulty in guessing,” 
said the eye, as plainly as ever eye spoke. 

“I dreamt—of your great-grandfather.” 

There was a change in the glance—“My great¬ 
grandfather?” 

“Yes, the old Sir Giles, or Sir John, you told me 
about the other day: he walked into my bedroom in 
his short cloak of murrey-colored velvet, his long 
rapier, and his Raleigh-looking hat and feather, just 
as the picture represents him; but with one excep¬ 
tion.” 

“And what was that?” 

“Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, 
were those of a skeleton.” 

“Well?” 

“Well, after taking a turn or two about the room, 
and looking round him with a wistful air, he came 
to the bed’s foot, stared at me in a manner impossible 
to describe—and then he—he laid hold of my panta¬ 
loons; whipped his long, bony legs into them in a 
twinkling; and, strutting up to the glass, seemed to 
view himself in it with great complacency. I tried 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


17 


to speak, but in vain. The effort, however, seemed 
to excite his attention; for, wheeling about, he 
showed me the grimmest-looking death’s head you 
can well imagine, and with an indescribable grin 
strutted out of the room.” 

“Absurd! Charles. How can you talk such non¬ 
sense?” 

“But, Caroline—the breeches are really gone.” 

On the following morning, contrary to his usual 
custom, Seaforth was the first person in the break¬ 
fast parlor. A serious, not to say anxious, expres¬ 
sion was visible upon his good-humored countenance, 
and his mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an 
incipient whistle, when little Flo, a tiny spaniel of 
the Blenheim breed—the pet object of Miss Julia 
Simpkinson’s affections—bounced out from beneath 
a sofa, and began to bark at—his pantaloons. 

They were cleverly “built” of a light-gray mix¬ 
ture, a broad stripe of the most vivid scarlet travers¬ 
ing each seam in a perpendicular direction from hip 
to ankle—in short, the regimental costume of the 
Royal Bombay Fencibles. The animal, educated in 
the country, had never seen such a pair of breeches in 
her life—Omne ignotum pro magnifico! The scarlet 
streak, inflamed as it was by the reflection of the 
fire, seemed to act on Flora’s nerves as the same color 
does on those of bulls and turkeys; she advanced at 
the pas de charge, and her vociferation, like her 
amazement, was unbounded. A sound kick from the 
disgusted officer changed its character, and induced 


18 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


a retreat at the very moment when the mistress of 
the pugnacious quadruped entered to the rescue. 

“Lassy me! Flo, what is the matter?” cried the 
sympathizing lady, with a scrutinizing glance levelled 
at the gentleman. 

It might as well have lighted on a feather bed. His 
air of imperturbable unconsciousness defied examina¬ 
tion; and as he would not, and Flora could not, ex¬ 
pound, that injured individual was compelled to 
pocket up her wrongs. Others of the household soon 
dropped in, and clustered round the board dedicated 
to the most sociable of meals; the urn was paraded 
“hissing hot,” and the cups which “cheer, but not 
inebriate,” steamed redolent of hyson and pekoe; 
muffins and marmalade, newspapers and finnan 
haddies, left little room for observation on the char¬ 
acter of Charles’s warlike “turn-out.” At length a 
look from Caroline, followed by a smile that nearly 
ripened to a titter, caused him to turn abruptly and 
address his neighbor. It was Miss Simpkinson, who, 
was deeply engaged in sipping her tea and turning 
over her album. The entreaties of the company 
were of course urgent. Mr. Peters, “who liked 
verses,” was especially persevering, and Sappho, at 
length compliant. After a preparatory hem, and a 
glance at the mirror to ascertain that her look was 
sufficiently sentimental, the poetess began:— 

“ There is a calm, a holy feeling. 

Vulgar minds can never know. 

O’er the bosom softly stealing,— 

Chasten’d grief, delicious woe! 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


19 


Oh! how sweet at eve regaining 

Yon lone tower's sequester’d shade— 

Sadly mute and uncomplaining-” 

—“Yow!—yeough!—yeough!—yow!—yow!” yelled 
a hapless sufferer from underneath the table. It was 
an unlucky hour for quadrupeds; and if “every dog 
will have his day,” he could not have selected a more 
unpropitious one than this. Mrs. Ogleton, too, had 
a pet—a favorite pug—whose squab figure, black 
muzzle, and tortuosity of tail, that curled like a head 
of celery in a salad-bowl, bespoke his Dutch extrac¬ 
tion. Yow! yow! yow! continued the brute—a cho¬ 
rus in which Flo instantly joined. Sooth to say, pug 
had more reason to express his dissatisfaction than 
was given him by the muse of Simpkinson; the other 
only barked for company. Scarcely had the poetess 
got through her first stanza, when Tom Ingoldsby, in 
the enthusiasm of the moment, became so lost in the 
material world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily 
laid his hand on the cock of the urn. Quivering with 
emotion, he gave it such an unlucky twist, that the 
full stream of its scalding contents descended on the 
gingerbread hide of the unlucky Cupid. The con¬ 
fusion was complete; the whole economy of the table 
disarranged—the company broke up in the most ad¬ 
mired disorder—and “vulgar minds will never 
know” anything more of Miss Simpkinson’s ode till 
they peruse it in some forthcoming Annual. 

Seaforth profited by the confusion to take the de¬ 
linquent who had caused this “stramash” by the arm, 
and to lead him to the lawn, where he had a word 


20 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


or two for his private ear. The conference between 
the young gentlemen was neither brief in its duration 
nor unimportant in its results. The subject was what 
the lawyers call tripartite, embracing the information 
that Charles Seaforth was over head and ears in love 
with Tom Ingoldsby’s sister; secondly, that the lady 
had referred him to “papa” for his sanction; thirdly 
and lastly, his nightly visitations, and consequent 
bereavement. At the two first items Tom smiled 
auspiciously; at the last he burst out into an abso¬ 
lute guffaw. 

“Steal your breeches! Miss Bailey over again, 
by Jove,” shouted Ingoldsby. “But a gentleman, you 
say—and Sir Giles too. I am not sure, Charles, 
whether I ought not to call you out for aspersing 
the honor of the family.” 

“Laugh as you will, Tom—be as incredulous as 
you please. One fact is incontestable—the breeches 
are gone! Look here—I am reduced to my reg¬ 
imentals; and if these go, to-morrow I must borrow 
of you!” 

Rochefoucault says, there is something in the mis¬ 
fortunes of our very best friends that does not dis¬ 
please us; assuredly we can, most of us, laugh at 
their petty inconveniences, till called upon to supply 
them. Tom composed his feature on the instant, and 
replied with more gravity, as well as with an explet¬ 
ive, which, if my Lord Mayor had been within hear¬ 
ing, might have cost him five shillings. 

“There is something very queer in this, after all. 
The clothes, you say, have positively disappeared. 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


21 


Somebody is playing you a trick; and, ten to one, your 
servant has a hand in it. By the way, I heard some¬ 
thing yesterday of his kicking up a bobbery in the 
kitchen, and seeing a ghost, or something of that 
kind, himself. Depend upon it, Barney is in the 
plot.” 

It now struck the lieutenant at once, that the 
usually buoyant spirits of his attendant had of late 
been materially sobered down, his loquacity obviously 
circumscribed, and that he, the said lieutenant, had 
actually rung his bell three several times that very 
morning before he could procure his attendance. 
Mr. Maguire was forthwith summoned, and under¬ 
went a close examination. The “bobbery” was easily 
explained. 

Mr. Barney had seen a ghost. 

“A what? you blockhead!” asked Tom Ingoldsby. 

“Sure then, and it’s meself will tell your honor the 
rights of it,” said the ghost-seer. “Meself and Miss 
Pauline, sir,—or Miss Pauline and meself, for the 
ladies comes first anyhow,—we got tired of the hob- 
stroppylous scrimmaging among the ould servants, 
that didn’t know a joke when they seen one; and we 
went out to look at the comet—that’s the rorybory- 
alehouse, they calls him in this country—and we 
walked upon the lawn—and divil of any alehouse 
there was there at all; and Miss Pauline said it was 
bekase of the shrubbery maybe, and why wouldn’t we 
see it better beyonst the trees? and so we went to the 
trees, but sorrow a comet did meself see there, bar¬ 
ring a big ghost instead of it.” 


22 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney?” 

“Och, then, divil a lie I’ll tell your honor. A tall 
ould gentlemen he was, all in white, with a shovel on 
the shoulder of him, and a big torch in his fist— 
though what he wanted with that it’s meself can’t tell, 
for his eyes like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and 
the comet, which wasn’t there at all—and ‘Barney/ 
says he to me—’cause why he knew me—‘Barney,’ 
says he, ‘what is it you’re doing with the colleen 
there, Barney?’—Divil a word did I say. Miss 
Pauline screeched, and cried murther in French, and 
ran off with herself; and of course meself was in a 
mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time to stop 
palavering with him any way: so I dispersed at once, 
and the ghost vanished in a flame of fire!” 

Mr. Maguire’s account was received with avowed 
incredulity by both gentlemen; but Barney stuck to 
his text with unflinching pertinacity. A reference 
to Mademoiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as 
neither party had a taste for delicate investigations. 

“I’ll tell you what, Seaforth,” said Ingoldsby, 
after Barney had received his dismissal, “that there 
is a trick here, is evident; and Barney’s vision may 
possibly be a part of it. Whether he is most knave 
or fool, you best know. At all events, I will sit up 
with you to-night, and see if I can convert my an¬ 
cestor into a visiting acquaintance. Meanwhile your 
finger on your lip!” 

Gladly would I grace my tale with recent horror, 
and therefore I do beseech the “gentle reader” to 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


23 


believe, that if all the details to this mysterious 
narrative are not in strict keeping, he will ascribe 
it only to the disgraceful innovations of modern 
degeneracy upon the sober and dignified habits of 
our ancestors. I can introduce him, it is true, into 
an old and high-roofed chamber, its walls covered 
on three sides with black oak wainscoting, adorned 
with carvings of fruit and flowers long anterior to 
those of Grinling Gibbons; the fourth side is clothed 
with a curious remnant of dingy tapestry, once eluci¬ 
datory of some Scriptural history, but of which not 
even Mrs. Botherby could determine. Mr. Simp- 
kinson, who had examined it carefully, inclined to 
believe the principal figure to be either Bathsheba, 
or Daniel in the lion’s den; while Tom Ingoldsby 
decided in favor of the King of Bashan. All, how¬ 
ever, was conjecture, tradition being silent on the 
subject. A lofty arched portal led into, and a little 
arched portal led out of, this apartment; they were 
opposite each other, and each possessed the security 
of massy bolts on its interior. The bedstead, too, 
was not one of yesterday, but manifestly coeval with 
days ere Seddons was, and when a good four-post 
“article” was deemed worthy of being a royal be¬ 
quest. The bed itself, with all the appurtenances of 
palliasse, mattresses, etc., was of far later date, and 
looked most incongruously comfortable; the case¬ 
ments, too, with their little diamond-shaped panes 
and iron binding, had given way to the modern het¬ 
erodoxy of the sash-window. Nor was this all that 
conspired to ruin the costume, and render the room 


24 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


a meet haunt for such “mixed spirits” only as could 
condescend to don at the same time an Elizabethan 
doublet and Bond-Street inexpressibles. 

With their green morocco slippers on a modern 
fender, in front of a disgracefully modern grate, sat 
two young gentlemen, clad in “shawl-pattern” dress¬ 
ing-gowns and black silk stocks, much at variance 
with the high cane-backed chairs which supported 
them. A bunch of abomination, called a cigar, 
reeked in the left-hand corner of the mouth of one, 
and in the right-hand corner of the mouth of the 
other—an arrangement happily adapted for the es¬ 
cape of the noxious fumes up the chimney, without 
that unmerciful “funking” each other which a less 
scientific disposition of the weed would have induced. 
A small pembroke table filled up the intervening 
space between them, sustaining, at each extremity, 
an elbow and a glass of toddy—thus in “lonely pen¬ 
sive contemplation” were the two worthies occupied, 
when the “iron tongue of midnight had tolled 
twelve.” 

“Ghost-time’s come!” said Ingoldsby, taking from 
his waistcoat pocket a watch like a gold half-crown, 
and consulting it as though he suspected the turret- 
clock over the stables of mendacity. 

“Hush!” said Charles; “did I not hear a foot¬ 
step?” 

There was a pause—there was a footstep—it 
sounded distinctly—it reached the door—it hesi¬ 
tated, stopped, and—passed on. 

Tom darted across the room, threw open the door, 


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


25 


and became aware of Mrs. Botherby toddling to her 
chamber, at the other end of the gallery, after dos¬ 
ing one of the housemaids with an approved julep 
from the Countess of Kent’s Choice Manual . 

“Good-night, sir!” said Mrs. Botherby. 

“Go to the devil!” said the disappointed ghost- 
hunter. 

An hour—two—rolled on, and still no spectral 
visitation; nor did aught intervene to make night 
hideous; and when the turret-clock sounded at 
length the hour of three, Ingoldsby, whose patience 
and grog were alike exhausted, sprang from his 
chair, saying— 

“This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. 
Deuce of any ghost shall we see to-night; it’s long 
past the canonical hour. I’m off to bed; and as to 
your breeches, I’ll insure them for the next twenty- 
four hours at least, at the price of the buckram.” 

“Certainly.—Oh! thank’ee—to be sure!” stam¬ 
mered Charles, rousing himself from a reverie, 
which had degenerated into an absolute snooze. 

“Good-night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; 
and defy the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender!” 

Seaforth followed his friend’s advice, and the next 
morning came down to breakfast dressed in the ha¬ 
biliments of the preceding day. The charm was 
broken, the demon defeated; the light grays with 
the red stripe down the seams were yet in rerum 
natura, and adorned the person of their lawful pro¬ 
prietor. 

Tom felicitated himself and his partner of the 


26 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


watch on the result of their vigilance; but there is a 
rustic adage, which warns us against self-gratulation 
before we are quite “out of the wood.”—Seaforth 
was yet within its verge. 

A rap at Tom Ingoldsby’s door the following 
morning startled him as he was shaving—he cut his 
chin. 

“Come in and be damned to you!” said the 
martyr, pressing his thumb on the sacrificed epi¬ 
dermis. The door opened, and exhibited Mr. 
Barney Maguire. 

“Well, Barney, what is it?” quoth the sufferer, 
adopting the vernacular of his visitant. 

“The master, sir—” 

“Well, what does he want?” 

“The loanst of a breeches, plase your honor.” 

“Why, you don’t mean to tell me- By 

Heaven, this is too good!” shouted Tom, bursting 
into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. “Why, Barney, 
you don’t mean to say the ghost has got them 
again?” 

Mr. Maguire did not respond to the young 
squire’s risibility; the cast of his countenance was de¬ 
cidedly serious. 

“Faith, then, it’s gone they are, sure enough! 
Hasn’t meself been looking over the bed, and under 
the bed, and in the bed, for the matter of that, and 
divil a ha’p’orth of breeches is there to the fore at 
all:—I’m bothered entirely!” 

“Hark’ee! Mr. Barney,” said Tom, incautiously 
removing his thumb, and letting a crimson stream 



THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


27 


“incarnadine the multitudinous” lather that plast¬ 
ered his throat,—“this may be all very well with 
your master, but you don’t humbug me, sir:—tell me 
instantly what have you done with the clothes?” 

This abrupt transition from “lively to severe” cer¬ 
tainly took Maguire by surprise, and he seemed for 
an instant as much disconcerted as it is possible to 
disconcert an Irish gentleman’s gentleman. 

“Me? is it meself, then, that’s the ghost to your 
honor’s thinking?” said he after a moment’s pause, 
and with a slight shade of indignation in his tones: 
“is it I would stale the master’s things—and what 
would I do with them?” 

“That you best know:—what your purpose is I 
can’t guess, for I don’t think you mean to ‘stale’ 
them, as you call it; but that you are concerned in 
their disappearance, I am satisfied. Confound this 
blood!—give me a towel, Barney.” 

Maguire acquitted himself of the commission. 
“As I’ve a sowl, your honor,” said he, solemnly, 
“little is it meself knows of the matter; and after 
what I seen-” 

“What you’ve seen! Why, what have you seen? 
—Barney, I don’t want to inquire into your flirta¬ 
tions; but don’t suppose you can palm off your 
saucer eyes and gig-lamps upon me!” 

“Then, as sure as your honor’s standing there, I 
saw him: and why wouldn’t I, when Miss Pauline 
was to the fore as well as meself, and-” 

“Get along with your nonsense; leave the room, 
sir!” 




28 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“But the master?” said Barney, imploringly; 
“and without a breeches?—sure he’ll be catching 
cowld!-” 

“Take that, rascal!” replied Ingoldsby, throwing 
a pair of pantaloons at, rather than to, him: “but 
don’t suppose, sir, you shall carry on your tricks here 
with impunity; recollect there is such a thing as a 
treadmill, and that my father is a county magis¬ 
trate.” 

Barney’s eye flashed fire; he stood erect, and was 
about to speak; but, mastering himself, not without 
an effort, he took up the garment, and left the room 
as perpendicular as a Quaker. 

“Ingoldsby,” said Charles Seaforth, after break¬ 
fast,“this is now past a joke; to-day is the last of 
my stay; for, notwithstanding the ties which detain 
me, common decency obliges me to visit home after 
so long an absence. I shall come to an immediate 
explanation with your father on the subject nearest 
my heart, and depart while I have a change of dress 
left. On his answer will my return depend! In the 
meantime tell me candidly,—I ask it in all serious¬ 
ness, and as a friend,—am I not a dupe to your well- 
known propensity to hoaxing? have you not a hand 
in-” 

“No, by heaven, Seaforth; I see what you mean: 
on my honor, I am as much mystified as yourself; 
and if your servant-” 

“Not he:—if there be a trick, he at least is not 
privy to it.” 





THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


29 


“If there be a trick? why, Charles, do you 
think-” 

“I know not what to think, Tom. As surely as 
you are a living man, so surely did that spectral 
anatomy visit my room again last night, grin in my 
face, and walk away with my trousers: nor was I 
able to spring from my bed, or break the chain which 
seemed to bind me to my pillow.” 

“Seaforth!” said Ingoldsby, after a short pause, 

“I will- But hush! here are the girls and my 

father.—I will carry off the females, and leave you 
a clear field with the governor: carry your point 
with him, and we will talk about your breeches after¬ 
wards.” 

Tom’s diversion was successful; he carried off the 
ladies en masse while Seaforth marched boldly up 
to the encounter, and carried “the governor’s” out¬ 
works by a coup de main. 

Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to 
his room that night as happy as if no such thing as a 
goblin had ever been heard of, and personal chattels 
were as well fenced in by law as real property. Not 
so Tom Ingoldsby: the mystery, for mystery there 
evidently was,—had not only piqued his curiosity, 
but ruffled his temper. The watch of the previous 
night had been unsuccessful, probably because it was 
undisguised. To-night he would “ensconce him¬ 
self,” not indeed “behind the arras,”—for the little 
that remained was, as we have seen, nailed to the 
wall,—but in a small closet which opened from one 
corner of the room, and by leaving the door ajar, 




30 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


would give to its occupant a view of all that might 
pass in the apartment. Here did the young ghost 
hunter take up a position, with a good stout sapling 
under his arm, a full half-hour before Seaforth re¬ 
tired for the night. Not even his friend did he let 
into his confidence, fully determined that if his plan 
did not succeed, the failure should be attributed to 
himself alone. 

At the usual hour of separation for the night, 
Tom saw, from his concealment, the lieutenant enter 
his room, and after taking a few turns in it, with an 
expression so joyous as to betoken that his thoughts 
were mainly occupied by his approaching happiness, 
proceed slowly to disrobe himself. The coat, the 
waistcoat, happiness, the black silk stock, were 
gradually discarded; the green morocco slippers 
were kicked off, and then—ay, and then—his counte¬ 
nance grew^rave; it seemed to occur to him all at 
once that this was his last stake,—nay, that the very 
breeches he had on were not his own,—that to¬ 
morrow morning was his last, and that if he lost 

them- A glance showed that his mind was made 

up; he replaced the single button he had just sub¬ 
ducted, and threw himself upon the bed in a state 
of transition,—half chrysalis, half grub. 

Wearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by 
the flickering light of the night-lamp, till, the clock 
striking one, induced him to increase the narrow 
opening which he had left for the purpose of obser¬ 
vation. The motion, slight as it was, seemed to at¬ 
tract Charles’s attention; for he raised himself 



THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


31 


suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a moment, 
and then stood upright upon the floor. Ingoldsby 
was on the point of discovering himself, when, the 
light flashing full upon his friend’s countenance, he 
perceived that, though his eyes were open, “their 
sense was shut,”—that he was yet under the influence 
of sleep. Seaforth advanced slowly to the toilet, lit 
his candle at the lamp that stood on it, then, going 
back to the bed’s foot, appeared to search eagerly 
for something which he could not find. For a few 
moments he seemed restless and uneasy, walking 
round the apartment and examining the chairs, till, 
coming fully in front of a large swing glass that 
flanked the dressing-table, he paused as if contem¬ 
plating his figure in it. He now returned towards 
the bed; put on his slippers, and with cautious and 
stealthy steps, proceeded towards the little arched 
doorway that opened on the private staircase. 

As he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged 
from his hiding-place; but the sleep-walker heard 
him not; he proceeded softly downstairs, followed 
at a due distance by his friend; opened the door 
which led out upon the gardens; and stood at once 
among the thickest of the shrubs, which there clus¬ 
tered round the base of a corner turret, and screened 
the postern from common observation. At this mo¬ 
ment Ingoldsby had nearly spoiled all by making a 
false step: the sound attracted Seaforth’s attention, 
—he paused and turned; and, as the full moon shed 
her light directly upon his pale and troubled features, 


32 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Tom marked, almost with dismay, the fixed and ray¬ 
less appearance of his eyes. 

The perfect stillness preserved by his follower 
seemed to reassure him; he turned aside; and from 
the midst of a thicket laurustinus drew forth a 
gardener’s spade, shouldering which he proceeded 
with greater rapidity into the midst of the shrubbery. 
Arrived at a certain point where the earth seemed 
to have been recently disturbed, he set himself heart¬ 
ily to the task of digging, till, having thrown up sev¬ 
eral shovelfuls of mould, he stopped, flung down his 
tool, and very composedly began to disencumber 
himself of his pantaloons. 

Up to this moment Tom had watched him with 
a wary eye: he now advanced cautiously, and, as his 
friend was busily engaged in disentangling himself 
from his garment, made himself master of the 
spade. Seaforth, meanwhile, had accomplished his 
purpose: he stood for a moment with “his streamers 
waving in the wind,” occupied in carefully rolling 
up the small-clothes into as compact a form as pos¬ 
sible, and all heedless of the breath of heaven, which 
might certainly be supposed at such a moment, and 
in such a plight, to “visit his frame too roughly.” 

He was in the act of stooping low to deposit the 
pantaloons in the grave which he had been digging 
for them, when Tom Ingoldsby came close behind 
him, and with the flat side of the spade- 

The shock was effectual—never again was Lieu¬ 
tenant Seaforth known to act the part of a somnam¬ 
bulist. One by one, his breeches,—his trousers,— 



THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON 


33 


his pantaloons,—his silk-net tights,—his patent 
cords,—his showy grays with the broad red stripe 
of the Bombay Fencibles were brought to light,— 
rescued from the grave in which they had been 
buried, like the strata of a Christmas pie; and after 
having been well aired by Mrs. Botherby, became 
once again effective. 

The family, the ladies especially, laughed— 
the Peterses laughed—the Simpkinsons laughed— 
Barney Maguire cried “Botheration!” and Ma’m- 
selle Pauline, “Mon Dieu!” 

Charles Seaforth, unable to face the quizzing 
which awaited him on all sides, started off two hours 
earlier than he had proposed:—he soon returned, 
however; and having, at his father-in-law’s request, 
given up the occupation of Rajah-hunting and shoot¬ 
ing Nabobs, led his blushing bride to the altar. 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


By Erckmann-Chatrian 

I 

Opposite the chapel of Saint Sebalt in Nuremberg, 
at the corner of Trabaus Street, there stands a little 
tavern, tall and narrow, with a toothed gable and 
dusty windows, whose roof is surmounted by a 
plaster Virgin. It was there that I spent the un- 
happiest days of my life. I had gone to Nuremberg 
to study the old German masters; but in default of 
ready money, I had to paint portraits—and such 
portraits! Fat old women with their cats on their 
laps, big-wigged aldermen, burgomasters in three- 
cornered hats—all horribly bright with ochre and 
vermilion. From portraits I descended to sketches, 
and from sketches to silhouettes. 

Nothing is more annoying than to have your land¬ 
lord come to you every day with pinched lips, shrill 
voice, and impudent manner to say: “Well, sir, how 
soon are you going to pay me? Do you know how 
much your bill is? No; that doesn’t worry you! 
You eat, drink, and sleep calmly enough. God feeds 
the sparrows. Your bill now amounts to two hun- 


34 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


35 


dred florins and ten kreutzers—it is not worth talk¬ 
ing about.” 

Those who have not heard any one talk in this 
way can form no idea of it; love of art, imagination, 
and the sacred enthusiasm for the beautiful are 
blasted by the breath of such an attack. You be¬ 
come awkward and timid; all your energy evapo¬ 
rates, as well as your feeling of personal dignity, 
and you bow respectfully at a distance to the burgo¬ 
master Schneegans. 

One night, not having a sou, as usual, and threat¬ 
ened with imprisonment by this worthy Mister Rap, 
I determined to make him a bankrupt by cutting my 
throat. Seated on my narrow bed, opposite the 
window, in this agreeable mood, I gave myself up to 
a thousand philosophical reflections, more or less 
comforting. 

“What is man?” I asked myself. “An omniv¬ 
orous animal; his jaws, provided with canines, in¬ 
cisors, and molars, prove it. The canines are made 
to tear meat; the incisors to bite fruits; and the 
molars to masticate, grind, and triturate animal and 
vegetable substances that are pleasant to smell and 
to taste. But when he has nothing to masticate, this 
being is an absurdity in Nature, a superfluity, a fifth 
wheel to the coach.” 

Such were my reflections. I dared not open my 
razor for fear that the invincible force of my logic 
would inspire me with the courage to make an end 
of it all. After having argued so finely, I blew out 
my candle, postponing the sequel till the morrow. 


36 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


That abominable Rap had completely stupefied 
me. I could do nothing but silhouettes, and my sole 
desire was to have some money to rid myself of his 
odious presence. But on this night a singular change 
came over my mind. I awoke about one o’clock—I 
lit my lamp, and, enveloping myself in my grey gab¬ 
ardine, I drew upon the paper a rapid sketch after 
the Dutch school—something strange and bizarre, 
which had not the slightest resemblance to my ordi¬ 
nary conceptions. 

Imagine a dreary courtyard enclosed by high dil¬ 
apidated walls. These walls are furnished with 
hooks, seven or eight feet from the ground. You 
see, at a glance, that it is a butchery. 

On the left, there extends a lattice structure; you 
perceive through it a quartered beef suspended from 
the roof by enormous pulleys. Great pools of blood 
run over the flagstones and unite in a ditch full of 
refuse. 

The light falls above, between the chimneys where 
the weathercocks stand out from a bit of the sky 
the size of your hand, and the roofs of the neigh¬ 
boring houses throw bold shadows from story to 
story. 

At the back of this place is a shed, beneath the 
shed a pile of wood, and upon the pile of wood some 
ladders, a few bundles of straw* some coils of rope, 
a chicken-coop, and an old dilapidated rabbit-hutch. 

How did these heterogeneous details suggest 
, themselves to my imagination? I don’t know; I had 
no reminiscences, and yet every stroke of the pencil 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


37 


seemed the result of observation, and . strange be¬ 
cause it was all so true. Nothing was lacking. 

But on the right, one corner of the sketch re¬ 
mained a blank. I did not know what to put there. 
. . . Something suddenly seemed to writhe there, to 
move. Then I saw a foot, the sole of a foot. Not¬ 
withstanding this improbable position, I followed 
my inspiration without reference to my own criticism. 
This foot was joined to a leg—over this leg, 
stretched out with effort, there soon floated the skirt 
of a dress. In short, there appeared by degrees an 
old woman, pale, dishevelled, and wasted, thrown 
down at the side of a well, and struggling to free 
herself from a hand that clutched her throat. 

It was a murder scene that I was drawing. The 
pencil fell from my hand. 

This woman, in the boldest attitude, with her 
thighs bent on the curb of the well, her face con¬ 
tracted by terror, and her two hands grasping the 
murderer’s arm, frightened me. I could not look at 
her. But the man—he, the person to whom that 
arm belonged—I could not see him. It was im¬ 
possible for me to finish the sketch. 

“I am tired,” I said, my forehead dripping with 
perspiration; “there is only this figure to do; I will 
finish it tomorrow. It will be easy then.” 

And again I went to bed, thoroughly frightened 
by my vision. 

The next morning, I got up very early. I wa9 
dressing in order to resume my interrupted work, 
when two little knocks were heard on my door. 


38 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“Come in!” 

The door opened. An old man, tall, thin, and 
dressed in black, appeared on the threshold. This 
man’s face, his eyes set close together and his large 
nose like the beak of an eagle, surmounted by a high 
bony forehead, had something severe about it. He 
bowed to me gravely. 

“Mister Christian Venius, the painter?” said he. 

“That is my name, sir.” 

He bowed again, adding: 

“The Baron Frederick Van Spreckdal.” 

The appearance of the rich amateur, Van Spreck¬ 
dal, judge of the criminal court, in my poor lodging, 
greatly disturbed me. I could not help throwing a 
stealthy glance at my old worm-eaten furniture, my 
damp hangings and my dusty floor. I felt humili¬ 
ated by such dilapidation; but Van Spreckdal did 
not seem to take any account of these details; and 
sitting down at my little table: 

“Mister Venius,” he resumed, “I come-” But 

at this instant his glance fell upon the unfinished 
sketch —he did not finish his phrase. 

I was sitting on the edge of my little bed; and the 
sudden attention that this personage bestowed upon 
one of my productions made my heart beat with an 
indefinable apprehension. 

At the end of a minute, Van Spreckdal lifted his 
head: 

“Are you the author of that sketch?” he asked me 
with an intent look. 

“Yes, sir.” 



THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 39 

“What is the price of it?” 

# never sell my sketches. It is the plan for a 
picture.” 

‘Ah!” said he, picking up the paper with the tips 
of his long yellow fingers. 

He took a lens from his waistcoat pocket and be¬ 
gan to study the design in silence. 

The sun was now shining obliquely into the garret. 
Van Spreckdal never said a word; the hook of his 
immense nose increased, his heavy eyebrows con¬ 
tracted, and his long pointed chin took a turn up¬ 
ward, making a thousand little wrinkles in his long, 
thin cheeks. The silence was so profound that I 
could distinctly hear the plaintive buzzing of a fly 
that had been caught in a spider’s web. 

“And the dimensions of this picture, Mister 
Venius?” he said without looking at me. 

“Three feet by four.” 

“The price?” 

“Fifty ducats.” 

Van Spreckdal laid the sketch on the table, and 
drew from his pockets a large purse of green silk 
shaped like a pear; he drew the rings of it- 

“Fifty ducats,” said he, “here they are.” 

I was simply dazzled. 

The Baron rose and bowed to me, and I heard 
his big ivory-headed cane resounding on each step 
until he reached the bottom of the stairs. Then 
recovering from my stupor, I suddenly remem¬ 
bered that I had not thanked him, and I flew down 
the five flights like lightning; but when I reached the 



40 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


bottom, I looked to the right and left; the street was 
deserted. 

“Well,” I said, “this is strange.” 

And I went upstairs again all out of breath. 

II 

The surprising way in which Van Spreckdal had 
appeared to me threw me into deep wonderment. 
“Yesterday,” I said to myself, as I contemplated the 
pile of ducats glittering in the sun, “yesterday I 
formed the wicked intention of cutting my throat, 
all for the want of a few miserable florins, and now 
today Fortune has showered them from the clouds. 
Indeed it was fortunate that I did not open my 
razor; and, if the same intention ever comes to me 
again, I will take care to wait until the morrow.” 

After making these judicious reflections, I sat 
down to finish the sketch; four strokes of the pencil 
and it would be finished. But here an incomprehen¬ 
sible difficulty awaited me. It was impossible for 
me to take those four sweeps of the pencil; I had 
lost the thread of my inspiration, and the mysterious 
personage no longer stood out in my brain. I tried 
in vain to evoke him, to sketch him, and to recover 
him; he no more accorded with the surroundings 
than with a figure by Raphael in a Teniers inn- 
kitchen. I broke out into a profuse perspiration. 

At this moment, Rap opened the door without 
knocking, according to his praiseworthy custom. His 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


41 


eyes fell upon my pile of ducats and in a shrill voice 
he cried: 

“Eh! eh! so I catch. Will you persist in telling 
me, Mr. Painter, that you have no money?” 

And his hooked fingers advanced with that ner¬ 
vous trembling that the sight of gold always pro¬ 
duces in a miser. 

For a few seconds I was stupefied. 

The memory of all the indignities that this indi¬ 
vidual had inflicted upon me, his covetous look, and 
his impudent smile exasperated me. With a single 
bound, I caught hold of him, and pushed him out of 
the room, slamming the door in his face. 

This was done with the crack and rapidity of a 
spring snuff-box. 

But from outside the old usurer screamed like 
an eagle: 

“My money, you thief, my money!” 

The lodgers came out of their rooms, asking: 

“What is the matter? What has happened?” 

I opened the door suddenly and quickly gave 
Mister Rap a kick in the spine that sent him rolling 
down more than twenty steps. 

“That’s what’s the matter!” I cried quite beside 
myself. Then I shut the door and bolted it, while 
bursts of laughter from the neighbors greeted 
Mister Rap in the passage. 

I was satisfied with myself; I rubbed my hands 
together. This adventure had put new life into me; 
I resumed my work, and was about to finish the 
sketch when I heard an unusual noise. 


42 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Butts of muskets were grounded on the pavement. 
I looked out of my window and saw three soldiers 
in full uniform with grounded arms in front of my 
door. 

I said to myself in my terror: “ Can it be that 
that scoundrel of a Rap has had any bones broken?” 

And here is the strange peculiarity of the human 
mind: I, who the night before had wanted to cut my 
own throat, shook from head to foot, thinking that 
I might well be hanged if Rap were dead. 

The stairway was filled with confused noises. It 
was an ascending flood of heavy footsteps, clanking 
arms, and short syllables. 

Suddenly somebody tried to open my door. It was 
shut. 

Then there was a general clamor. 

‘‘In the name of the law—open!” 

I arose trembling, and weak in the knees. 

“Open!” the same voice repeated. 

I thought to escape over the roofs; but I had 
hardly put my head out of the little snuff-box win¬ 
dow, when I drew back, seized with vertigo. I saw 
in a flash all the windows below with their shining 
panes, their flowerpots, their bird-cages, and their 
gratings. Lower, the balcony; still lower, the street- 
lamp; still lower again, the sign of the “Red Cask” 
framed in iron-work; and, finally three glittering 
bayonets, only awaiting my fall to run me through 
the body from the sole of my foot to the crown of 
my head. On the roof of the opposite house a tor¬ 
toise-shell cat was crouching behind a chimney, 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


43 


watching a band of sparrows fighting and scolding in 
the gutter. 

One cannot imagine to what clearness, intensity, 
and rapidity the human eye acquires when stimulated 
by fear. 

At the third summons I heard: 

“Open, or we shall force it!” 

Seeing that flight was impossible, I staggered to 
the door and drew the bolt. 

Two hands immediately fell upon my collar. A 
dumpy little man, smelling of wine, said: 

“I arrest you!” 

He wore a bottle-green redingote, buttoned to the 
chin, and a stovepipe hat. He had large brown 
whiskers, rings on every finger, and was named 
Passauf. 

He was the chief of police. 

Five bull-dogs with flat caps, noses like pistols, and 
lower jaws turning upward, observed me from out¬ 
side. 

“What do you want?” I asked Passauf. 

“Come downstairs,” he cried roughly, as he gave 
a sign to one of his men to seize me. 

This man took hold of me, more dead than alive, 
while several other men turned my room upside 
down. 

I went downstairs supported by the arms like a 
person in the last stages of consumption—with hair 
dishevelled and stumbling at every step. 

They thrust me into a cab between two strong 
fellows, who charitably let me see the ends of their 


44 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


clubs, held to their wrists by a leather string—and 
then the carriage started off. 

I heard behind us the feet of all the urchins of 
the town. 

“What have I done?” I asked one of my keepers. 

He looked at the other with a strange smile and 
said: 

“Hans—he asks what he has done!” 

That smile froze from my blood. 

Soon a deep shadow enveloped the carriage; the 
horses’ hoofs resounded under an archway. We 
were entering the Raspelhaus. Of this place one 
might say: 

“Dans cet antre, 

Je vois fort bien comme Ton entre, 

Et ne vois point comme on en sort.” 

All is not rose-colored in this world; from the 
claws of Rap I fell into a dungeon, from which very 
few poor devils have a chance to escape. 

Large dark courtyards and rows of windows like 
a hospital, and furnished with gratings; not a sprig 
of verdure, not a festoon of ivy, not even a weather¬ 
cock in perspective—such was my new lodging. It 
was enough to make one tear his hair out by the 
roots. 

The police officers, accompanied by the jailer, 
took me temporarily to a lock-up. 

The jailer, if I remember rightly, was named 
Kasper Schlussel; with his grey woollen cap, his pipe 
between his teeth, and his bunch of keys at his belt, 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


45 


he reminded me of the Owl-God of the Caribs. He 
had the same golden yellow eyes, that see in the 
dark, a nose like a comma, and a neck that was sunk 
between the shoulders. 

Schlussel shut me up as calmly as one locks up 
his socks in a cupboard, while thinking of something 
else. As for me, I stood for more than ten minutes 
with my hands behind my back and my head bowed. 
At the end of that time I made the following reflec¬ 
tion: “When falling, Rap cried out, ‘I am assassi¬ 
nated,’ but he did not say by whom. I will say it 
was my neighbor, the old merchant with the spec¬ 
tacles : he will be hanged in my place.” 

This idea comforted my heart, and I drew a long 
breath. Then I looked about my prison. It seemed 
to have been newly whitewashed, and the walls were 
bare of designs, except in one corner, where a gal¬ 
lows had been crudely sketched by my predecessor. 
The light was admitted through a bull’s-eye about 
nine or ten feet from the floor; the furniture con¬ 
sisted of a bundle of straw and a tub. 

I sat down upon the straw with my hands around 
my knees in deep despondency. It was with great 
difficulty that I could think clearly; but suddenly im¬ 
agining that Rap, before dying, had denounced me, 
my legs began to tingle, and I jumped up coughing, 
as if the hempen cord were already tightening 
around my neck. 

At the same moment, I heard Schlussel walking 
down the corridor; he opened the lock-up, and told 


46 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


me to follow him. He was still accompanied by the 
two officers, so I fell into step resolutely. 

We walked down long galleries, lighted at inter¬ 
vals by small windows from within. Behind a grat¬ 
ing I saw the famous Jic-Jack, who was going to be 
executed on the morrow. He had on a strait-jacket 
and sang out in a raucous voice: 

“Je suis Ie roi de ces montagnes.” 

Seeing me, he called out: 

“Eh! comrade! I’ll keep a place for you at my 
right.” 

The two police officers and the Owl-God looked at 
each other and smiled, while I felt the goose-flesh 
creep down the whole length of my back. 

Ill 

Schlussel shoved me into a large and very dreary 
hall, with benches arranged in a semicircle. The ap¬ 
pearance of this deserted hall, with its two high 
grated windows, and its Christ carved in old brown 
oak with His arms extended and His head sorrow¬ 
fully inclined upon His shoulder, inspired me with 
I do not know what kind of religious fear that ac¬ 
corded with my actual situation. 

All my ideas of false accusation disappeared, and 
my lips trembling murmured a prayer. 

I had not prayed for a long time; but misfortune 
always brings us to thoughts of submission. Man is 
so little in himself! 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


47 


Opposite me, on an elevated seat, two men were 
sitting with their backs to the light, and consequently 
their faces were in shadow. However, I recognized 
Van Spreckdal by his aquiline profile, illuminated by 
an oblique reflection from the window. The other 
person was fat, he had round, chubby cheeks and 
short hands, and he wore a robe, like Van Spreckdal. 

Below was the clerk of the court, Conrad; he was 
writing at a low table and was tickling the tip of his 
ear with the feather-end of his pen. When I en¬ 
tered, he stopped to look at me curiously. 

They made me sit down, and Van Spreckdal, rais¬ 
ing his voice, said to me: 

“Christian Venius, where did you get this sketch?” 

He showed me the nocturnal sketch which was 
then in his possession. It was handed to me. After 
having examined it, I replied: 

“I am the author of it.” 

A long silence followed; the clerk of the court, 
Conrad, wrote down my reply. I heard his pen 
scratch over the paper, and I thought: “Why did 
they ask me that question? That has nothing to do 
with the kick I gave Rap in the back.” 

“You are the author of it?” asked Van Spreckdal. 
“What is the subject?” 

“It is a subject of pure fancy.” 

“You have not copied the details from some 
spot?” 

“No, sir; I imagined it all.” 

“Accused Christian,” said the judge in a severe 
tone, “I ask you to reflect. Do not lie.” 


48 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“I Have spoken the truth.” 

“Write that down, clerk,” said Van Spreckdal. 

The pen scratched again. 

“And this woman,” continued the judge—“this 
woman who is being murdered at the side of the 
well—did you imagine her also?” 

“Certainly.” 

“You have never seen her?” 

“Never.” 

Van Spreckdal rose indignantly; then, sitting down 
again, he seemed to consult his companion in a low 
voice. 

These two dark profiles silhouetted against the 
brightness of the window, and the three men stand¬ 
ing behind me, the silence in the hall—everything 
made me shiver. 

“What do you want with me? What have I 
done?” I murmured. 

Suddenly Van Spreckdal said to my guardians: 

“You can take the prisoner back to the carriage; 
we will go to Metzerstrasse.” 

Then, addressing me: 

“Christian Venius,” he cried, “you are in a deplor¬ 
able situation. Collect your thoughts and remember 
that if the law of man is inflexible, there still remains 
for you the mercy of God. This you can merit by 
confessing your crime.” 

These words stunned me like a blow from a ham¬ 
mer. I fell back with extended arms, crying: 

“Ah! what a terrible dream!” 

And I fainted. 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


49 


When I regained consciousness, the carriage was 
rolling slowly down the street; another one preceded 
us. 1 he two officers were always with me. One of 
them on the way offered a pinch of snuff to his com¬ 
panion; mechanically I reached out my hand toward 
the snuff-box, but he withdrew it quickly. 

My cheeks reddened with shame, and I turned 
away my head to conceal my emotion. 

“If you look outside,” said the man with the snuff¬ 
box, “we shall be obliged to put handcuffs on you.” 

“May the devil strangle you, you infernal scoun¬ 
drel!” I said to myself. And as the carriage now 
stopped, one of them got out, while the other held 
me by the collar; then, seeing that his comrade was 
ready to receive me, he pushed me rudely to him. 

These infinite precautions to hold possession of 
my person boded no good; but I was far from pre¬ 
dicting the seriousness of the accusation that hung 
over my head until an alarming circumstance opened 
my eyes and threw me into despair. 

They pushed me along a low alley, the pavement 
of which was unequal and broken; along the wall 
there ran a yellowish ooze, exhaling a fetid odor. 
I walked down this dark place with the two men be¬ 
hind me. A little further there appeared the chiaro¬ 
scuro of an interior courtyard. 

I grew more and more terror-stricken as I ad¬ 
vanced. It was no natural feeling: it was a poignant 
anxiety, outside of nature—like a nightmare. I re¬ 
coiled instinctively at each step. 


50 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“Go on!” cried one of the policemen, laying 
his hand on my shoulder; “go on!” 

But what was my astonishment when, at the end 
of the passage, I saw the courtyard that I had drawn 
the night before, with its walls furnished with hooks, 
its rubbish-heap of old iron, its chicken-coops, and 
its rabbit-hutch. Not a dormer window, high or 
low, not a broken pane, not the slightest detail had 
been omitted. 

I was thunderstruck by this strange revelation. 

Near the well were the two judges, Van Spreckdal 
and Richter. At their feet lay the old woman ex¬ 
tended on her back, her long, thin, gray hair, her 
blue face, her eyes wide open, and her tongue be¬ 
tween her teeth. 

It was a horrible spectacle! 

“Well,” said Van Spreckdal, with solemn accents, 
“what have you to say?” 

I did not reply. 

“Do you remember having thrown this woman, 
Theresa Becker, into this well, after having 
strangled her to rob her of her money?” 

“No,” I cried, “no! I do not know this woman; 
I never saw her before. May God help me!” 

“That will do,” he replied in a dry voice. And 
without saying another word he went out with his 
companion. 

The officers now believed that they had best put 
handcuffs on me. They took me back to the Raspel- 
haus, in a state of profound stupidity. I did not 
know what to think; my conscience itself troubled 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


51 


me; I even asked myself if I really had murdered 
the old woman! 

In the eyes of the officers I was condemned. 

I will not tell you of my emotions that night in 
the Raspelhaus, when, seated on my straw bed with 
the window opposite me and the gallows in per¬ 
spective, I heard the watchmen cry in the silence of 
the night: “Sleep, people of Nuremberg; the Lord 
watches over you. One o’clock! Two o’clock! 
Three o’clock!” 

Every one may form his own idea of such a night. 
There is a line saying that it is better to be hanged 
innocent than guilty. For the soul, yes; but for the 
body, it makes no difference; on the contrary, it 
kicks, it curses its lot, it tries to escape, knowing well 
enough that its role ends with the rope. Add to 
this, that it repents not having sufficiently enjoyed 
life and at having listened to the soul when it 
preached abstinence. 

“Ah! if I had only known!” it cried, “you would 
not have led me around by a string with your big 
words, your beautiful phrases, and your magnificent 
sentences! You would not have allured me with 
your fine promises. I should have had many happy 
moments that are now lost forever. Everything is 
over! You said to me: ‘Control your passions.’ 
Very well! I did control them. Here I am now. 
They are going to hang me, and you—later they 
will speak of you as a sublime soul, a stoical soul, 
a martyr to the errors of Justice. They will never 
think about me!” 


52 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Such were the sad reflections of my poor body. 

Day broke; at first, dull and undecided, it threw 
an uncertain light on my bull’s-eye window with its 
crossbars; then it blazed against the wall at the back. 
Outside the street became lively. This was a 
market-day; it was Friday. I heard the vegetable 
wagons pass and also the country people with their 
baskets. Some chickens cackled in their coops in 
passing and some butter sellers chattered together. 
The market opposite opened, and they began to ar¬ 
range the stalls. 

Finally it was broad daylight and the vast mur¬ 
mur of the increasing crowd, housekeepers who as¬ 
sembled with baskets on their arms, coming and go¬ 
ing, discussing and marketing, told me that it was 
eight o’clock. 

With the light, my heart gained a little courage. 
Some of my black thoughts disappeared. I desired 
to see what was going on outside. 

Other prisoners before me had managed to climb 
up to the bull’s-eye; they had dug some holes in the 
wall to mount more easily. I climbed in my turn, 
and, when seated in the oval edge of the window, 
with my legs bent and my head bowed, I could see 
the crowd, and all the life and movement. Tears 
ran freely down my cheeks. I thought no longer of 
suicide—I experienced a need to live and breathe, 
which was really extraordinary. 

“Ah!” I said, “to live what happiness! Let them 
harness me to a wheelbarrow—let them put a ball 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 53 

and chain around my leg—nothing matters if I may 
only live!” 

1 he old market, with its roof shaped like an ex¬ 
tinguisher, supported on heavy pillars, made a superb 
picture: old women seated before their panniers of 
vegetables, their cages of poultry and their baskets 
of eggs; behind them the Jews, dealers in old clothes, 
their faces the color of old boxwood; butchers with 
bare arms, cutting up meat on their stalls; country¬ 
men, with large hats on the backs of their heads, 
calm and grave with their hands behind their backs 
and resting on their sticks of hollywood, and tran¬ 
quilly smoking their pipes. Then the tumult and 
noise of the crowd—those screaming, shrill, grave, 
high, and short words—those expressive gestures— 
those sudden attitudes that show from a distance 
the progress of a discussion and depict so well the 
character of the individual—in short, all this cap¬ 
tivated my mind, and notwithstanding my sad con¬ 
dition, I felt happy to be still of the world. 

Now, while I looked about in this manner, a man 
—a butcher—passed, inclining forward and carrying 
an enormous quarter of beef on his shoulders; his 
arms were bare, his elbows were raised upward and 
his head was bent under them. His long hair, like 
that of Salvator’s Sicambrian, hid his face from me; 
and yet, at the first glance, I trembled. 

“It is he!” I said. 

All the blood in my body rushed to my heart. I 
got down from the window trembling to the ends of 
my fingers, feeling my cheeks quiver, and the pallor 


54 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


spread over my face, stammering in a choked voice: 

“It is he! he is there—there—and I, I have to die 
to expiate his crime. Oh, God! what shall I do? 
What shall I do?” 

A sudden idea, an inspiration from Heaven, 
flashed across my mind. I put my hand in the pocket 
of my coat—my box of crayons was there! 

Then rushing to the wall, I began to trace the 
scene of the murder with superhuman energy. No 
uncertainty, no hesitation! I knew the man! I had 
seen him! He was there before me! 

At ten o’clock the jailer came to my cell. His owl¬ 
like impassibility gave place to admiration. 

“Is it possible?” he cried, standing at the thres¬ 
hold. 

“Go, bring me my judges,” I said to him, pursu¬ 
ing my work with an increasing exultation. 

Schlussel answered: 

“They are waiting for you in the trial-room.” 

“I wish to make a revelation,” I cried, as I put 
the finishing touches to the mysterious personage. 

He lived; he was frightful to see. His full-faced 
figure, foreshortened upon the wall, stood out from 
the white background with an astonishing vitality. 

The jailer went away. 

A few minutes afterward the two judges appeared. 
They were stupefied. I, trembling, with extended 
hand, said to them: 

“There is the murderer!” 

After a few minutes of silence, Van Spreckdal 
asked me: 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


55 


“What is his name?” 

“I don’t know; but he is at this moment in the 
market; he is cutting up meat in the third stall to 
the left as you enter from Trabaus Street.” 

“What do you think?” said he, leaning toward 
his colleague. 

“Send for the man,” he replied in a grave tone. 

Several officers retained in the corridor obeyed this 
order. The judges stood, examining the sketch. As 
for me, I had dropped on my bed of straw, my head 
between my knees, perfectly exhausted. 

Soon steps were heard echoing under the archway. 
Those who have never awaited the hour of deliver¬ 
ance and counted the minutes, which seem like cen¬ 
turies—those who have never experienced the sharp 
emotions of outrage, terror, hope, and doubt—can 
have no conception of the inward chills that I ex¬ 
perienced at that moment. I should have distin¬ 
guished the step of the murderer, walking between 
the guards, among a thousand others. They ap¬ 
proached. The judges themselves seemed moved. 
I raised up my head, my heart feeling as if an iron 
hand had clutched it, and I fixed my eyes upon the 
closed door. It opened. The man entered. His 
cheeks were red and swollen, the muscles in his large 
contracted jaws twitched as far as his ears, and his 
little restless eyes, yellow like a wolf’s, gleamed be¬ 
neath his heavy yellowish red eyebrows. 

Van Spreckdal showed him the sketch in silence. 

Then that murderous man, with the large shoul¬ 
ders, having looked, grew pale—then, giving a roar 


56 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


which thrilled us all with terror, he waved his enor¬ 
mous arms, and jumped backward to overthrow the 
guards. There was a terrible struggle in the cor¬ 
ridor; you could hear nothing but the panting breath 
of the butcher, his muttered imprecations, and the 
short words and the shuffling feet of the guard, upon 
the flagstones. 

This lasted only about a minute. 

Finally the assassin re-entered, with his head hang¬ 
ing down, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands fastened 
behind his back. He looked again at the picture of 
the murderer; he seemed to reflect, and then, in a low 
voice, as if talking to himself: 

“Who could have seen me,” he said, “at mid¬ 
night?” 

I was saved! 

Many years have passed since that terrible adven¬ 
ture. Thank Heaven! I make silhouettes no longer, 
nor portraits of burgomasters. Through hard work 
and perseverance, I have conquered my place in the 
world, and I earn my living honorably by painting 
works of art—the sole end, in my opinion, to which 
a true artist should aspire. But the memory of that 
nocturnal sketch has always remained in my mind. 
Sometimes, in the midst of work, the thought of it 
recurs. Then I lay down my palette and dream for 
hours. 

How could a crime committed by a man that I did 
not know—at a place that I had never seen—have 


THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH 


57 


been reproduced by my pencil, in all its smallest de¬ 
tails? 

Was it chance? No! And moreover, what is 
chance but the effect of a cause of which we are 
ignorant? 

Was Schiller right when he said: “The immortal 
soul does not participate in the weaknesses of mat¬ 
ter; during the sleep of the body, it spreads its radi¬ 
ant wings and travels, God knows where! What it 
then does, no one can say, but inspiration sometimes 
betrays the secret of its nocturnal wanderings.” 

Who knows? Nature is more audacious in her 
realities than man in his most fantastic imagining. 


THE DESERTED HOUSE 


By Ernest T. W. Hoffmann 

ifou know already that I spent the greater part of 

last summer in X-, began Theodore. The many 

old friends and acquaintances I found there, the free, 
jovial life, the manifold artistic and intellectual in¬ 
terests—all these combined to keep me in that city. 
I was happy as never before, and found rich nourish¬ 
ment for my old fondness for wandering alone 
through the streets, stopping to enjoy every picture 
in the shop windows, every placard on the walls, 
or watching the passers-by and choosing some one 
or the other of them to cast his horoscope secretly 
to myself. 

There is one broad avenue leading to the - 

Gate and lined with handsome buildings of all de¬ 
scriptions, which is the meeting place of the rich and 
fashionable world. The shops which occupy the 
ground floor of the tall palaces are devoted to the 
trade in articles of luxury, and the apartments above 
are the dwellings of people of wealth and position. 
The aristocratic hotels are to be found in this avenue, 
the palaces of the foreign ambassadors are there, 
and you can easily imagine that such a street would 
be the centre of the city’s life and gaiety. 

58 




THE DESERTED HOUSE 


59 


I had wandered through the avenue several times, 
when one day my attention was caught by a house 
which contrasted strangely with the others surround¬ 
ing it. Picture to yourselves a low building but four 
windows broad, crowded in between two tall, hand¬ 
some structures. Its one upper story was a little 
higher than the tops of the ground-floor windows of 
its neighbors, its roof was dilapidated, its windows 
patched with paper, its discolored walls spoke of 
years of neglect. You can imagine how strange such 
a house must have looked in this street of wealth and 
fashion. Looking at it more attentively I perceived 
that the windows of the upper story were tightly 
closed and curtained, and that a wall had been built 
to hide the windows of the ground floor. The en¬ 
trance gate, a little to one side, served also as a door¬ 
way for the building, but I could find no sign of 
latch, lock, or even a bell on this gate. I was con¬ 
vinced that the house must be unoccupied, for at 
whatever hour of the day I happened to be passing 
I had never seen the faintest signs of life about it. 

You all, the good comrades of my youth, know 
that I have been prone to consider myself a sort of 
clairvoyant, claiming to have glimpses of a strange 
world of wonders, a world which you, with your 
hard common sense, would attempt to deny or laugh 
away. I confess that I have often lost myself in 
mysteries which after all turned out to be no mys¬ 
teries at all. And it looked at first as if this was 
to happen to me in the matter of the deserted house, 
that strange house which drew my steps and my 


60 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


thoughts to Itself with a power that surprised me. 
But the point of my story will prove to you that I 
am right in asserting that I know more than you do. 
Listen now to what I am about to tell you. 

One day, at the hour in which the fashionable 
world is accustomed to promenade up and down the 
avenue, I stood as usual before the deserted house, 
lost in thought. Suddenly I felt, without looking up, 
that some one had stopped beside me, fixing his eyes 

on me. It was Count P-, who told me that the 

old house contained nothing more mysterious than 
a cake bakery belonging to the pastry cook whose 
handsome shop adjoined the old structure. The 
windows of the ground floor were walled up to give 
protection to the ovens, and the heavy curtains of 
the upper story were to keep the sunlight from the 
wares laid out there. When the Count informed me 
of this I felt as if a bucket of cold water had been 
suddenly thrown over me. But I could not believe 
in this story of the cake and candy factory. Through 
some strange freak of the imagination I felt as a 
child feels when some fairy tale has been told it to 
conceal the truth it suspects. I scolded myself for 
a silly fool; the house remained unaltered in its ap¬ 
pearance, and the visions faded in my brain, until 
one day a chance incident woke them to life again. 

I was wandering through the avenue as usual, and 
as I passed the deserted house I could not resist a 
hasty glance at its close-curtained upper windows. 
But as I looked at it, the curtain on the last window 
near the pastry shop began to move. A hand, an 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 


61 


arm, came out from between its folds. I took my 
opera glass from my pocket and saw a beautifully 
formed woman’s hand, on the little finger of which 
a large diamond sparkled in unusual brilliancy; a rich 
bracelet glittered on the white, rounded arm. The 
hand set a tall, oddly-formed crystal bottle on the 
window ledge and disappeared again behind the cur¬ 
tain. 

I stopped as if frozen to stone; a weirdly pleasur¬ 
able sensation, mingled with awe, streamed through 
my being with the warmth of an electric current. I 
stared up at the mysterious window and a sigh of 
longing arose from the very depths of my heart. 
When I came to myself again, I was angered to find 
that I was surrounded by a crowd which stood gaz¬ 
ing up at the window with curious faces. I stole 
away inconspicuously, and the demon of all things 
prosaic whispered to me that what I had just seen 
was the rich pastry cook’s wife, in her Sunday adorn¬ 
ment, placing an empty bottle, used for rose-water or 
the like, on the window sill. Nothing very weird 
about this. 

Suddenly a most sensible thought came to me. I 
turned and entered the shining, mirror-walled shop 
of the pastry cook. Blowing the steaming foam 
from my cup of chocolate, I remarked: “You have 
a very useful addition to your establishment next 
door.” The man leaned over his counter and looked 
at me with a questioning smile, as if he did not under¬ 
stand me. I repeated that in my opinion he had 
been very clever to set his bakery in the neighbor- 


62 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


ing house, although the deserted appearance of the 
building was a strange sight in its contrasting sur¬ 
roundings. “Why, sir,” began the pastry cook, 
“who told you that the house next door belongs to 
us? Unfortunately every attempt on our part to 
acquire it has been in vain, and I fancy it is all the 
better so, for there is something queer about the 
place.” 

You can imagine, dear friends, how interested I 
became upon hearing these words, and that I begged 
the man to tell me more about the house. 

“I do not know anything very definite, sir,” he 
said. “All that we know for a certainty is that the 

house belongs to the Countess S-, who lives on 

her estates and has not been to the city for years. 
This house, so they tell me, stood in its present shape 
before any of the handsome buildings were raised 
which are now the pride of our avenue, and in all 
these years there has been nothing done to it except 
to keep it from actual decay. Two living creatures 
alone dwell there, an aged misanthrope of a steward 
and his melancholy dog, which occasionally howls at 
the moon from the back courtyard. According to 
the general story the deserted house is haunted. In 
very truth my brother, who is the owner of this 
shop, and myself have often, when our business kept 
us awake during the silence of the night, heard 
strange sounds from the other side of the walls. 
There was a rumbling and a scraping that frightened 
us both. And not very long ago we heard one night 
a strange singing which I could not describe to you. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 


63 


It was evidently the voice of an old woman, but the 
tones were so sharp and clear, and ran up to the 
top of the scale in cadences and long trills, the like 
of which I have never heard before, although I have 
heard many singers in many lands. It seemed to be 
a French song, but I am not quite sure of that, for 
I could not listen long to the mad, ghostly singing, 
it made the hair stand erect on my head. And at 
times, after the street noises are quiet, we can hear 
deep sighs, and sometimes a mad laugh, which seem 
to come out of the earth. But if you lay your ear 
to the wall in our back room, you can hear that the 
noises come from the house next door.” He led me 
into the back room and pointed through the window. 
“And do you see that iron chimney coming out of 
the wall there? It smokes so heavily sometimes, 
even in summer when there are no fires used, that 
my brother has often quarrelled with the old stew¬ 
ard about it, fearing danger. But the old man ex¬ 
cuses himself by saying that he was cooking his food. 
Heaven knows what the queer creature may eat, 
for often, when the pipe is smoking heavily, a strange 
and queer smell can be smelled all over the house.” 

The glass doors of the shop creaked in opening. 
The pastry cook hurried into the front room, and 
when he had nodded to the figure now entering he 
threw a meaning glance at me. I understood him 
perfectly. Who else could this strange guest be, but 
the steward who had charge of the mysterious 
house! Imagine a thin little man with a face the 
color of a mummy, with a sharp nose, tight-set lips, 


64 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


green cat’s eyes, and a crazy smile; his hair dressed 
in the old-fashioned style with a high toupet and a 
bag at the back, and heavily powdered. He wore 
a faded old brown coat which was carefully brushed, 
gray stockings, and broad, flat-toed shoes with 
buckles. And imagine further, that in spite of his 
meagreness this little person is robustly built, with 
huge fists and long, strong fingers, and that he walks 
to the shop counter with a strong, firm step, smiling 
his imbecile smile, and whining out: “A couple of 
candied oranges—a couple of macaroons—a couple 

of sugared chestnuts-” 

The pastry cook smiled at me and then spoke to 
the old man. “You do not seem to be quite well. 
Yes, yes, old age, old age! It takes the strength 
from our limbs.” The old man’s expression did not 
change, but his voice went up: “Old age?—Old age? 
—Lose strength ?—Grow weak ?—Oho!” And with 
this he clapped his hands together until the joints 
cracked, and sprang high up into the air until the 
entire shop trembled and the glass vessels on the 
walls and counters rattled and shook. But in the 
same moment a hideous screaming was heard; the 
old man had stepped on his black dog, which, creep¬ 
ing in behind him, had laid itself at his feet on the 
floor. “Devilish beast—dog of hell!” groaned the 
old man in his former miserable tone, opening his 
bag and giving the dog a large macaroon. The dog, 
which had burst out into a cry of distress that was 
truly human, was quiet at once, sat down on its 
haunches, and gnawed at the macaroon like a squir- 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 


65 


rel. When it had finished its tidbit, the old man 
had also finished the packing up and putting away 
of his purchases. “Good night, honored neighbor,” 
he spoke, taking the hand of the pastry cook and 
pressing it until the latter cried aloud in pain. “The 
weak old man wishes you a good night, most hon¬ 
orable Sir Neighbor,” he repeated, and then walked 
from the shop, followed closely by his black dog. 
The old man did not seem to have noticed me at 
all. I was quite dumbfounded in my astonishment. 

“There, you see,” began the pastry cook. “This 
is the way he acts when he comes in here, two or 
three times a month, it is. But I can get nothing 
out of him except the fact that he was a former valet 

of Count S-, that he is now in charge of this 

house here, and that every day—for many years 
now—he expects the arrival of his master’s family.” 
The hour was now come when fashion demanded 
that the elegant world of the city should assemble 
in this attractive shop. The doors opened inces¬ 
santly, the place was thronged, and I could ask no 
further questions. 

This much I knew, that Count P-’s informa¬ 

tion about the ownership and the use of the house 
were not correct; also, that the old steward, in spite 
of his denial, was not living alone there, and that 
some mystery was hidden behind its discolored walls. 
How could I combine the story of the strange and 
gruesome singing with the appearance of the beauti¬ 
ful arm at the window? That arm could not be part 
of the wrinkled body of an old woman; the singing, 




66 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


according to the pastry cook’s story, could not come 
from the throat of a blooming and youthful maiden. 
I decided in favor of the arm, as it was easy to ex¬ 
plain to myself that some trick of acoustics had 
made the voice sound sharp and old, or that it had 
appeared so only in the pastry cook’s fear-distorted 
imagination. Then I thought of the smoke, the 
strange odors, the oddly-formed crystal bottle that 
I had seen, and soon the vision of a beautiful crea¬ 
ture held enthralled by fatal magic stood as if alive 
before my mental vision. The old man became a 
wizard who, perhaps quite independently of the 
family he served, had set up his devil’s kitchen in 
the deserted house. My imagination had begun to 
work, and in my dreams that night I saw clearly the 
hand with the sparkling diamond on its finger, the 
arm with the shining bracelet. From out thin, gray 
mists there appeared a sweet face with sadly implor¬ 
ing blue eyes, then the entire exquisite figure of a 
beautiful girl. And I saw that what I had thought 
was mist was the fine steam flowing out in circles 
from a crystal bottle held in the hands of the vision. 

“Oh, fairest creature of my dreams,” I cried in 
rapture, “reveal to me where thou art, what it is that 
enthralls thee. Ah, I know it! It is black magic that 
holds thee captive—thou art the unhappy slave of 
that malicious devil who wanders about brown-clad 
and bewigged in pastry shops, scattering their wares 
with his unholy springing and feeding his demon dog 
on macaroons, after they have howled out a Satanic 
measure in five-eighth time. Oh, I know it all, thou 


THE DESERTED HOUSE 


67 


fair and charming vision. The diamond is the re¬ 
flection of the fire of thy heart. But that bracelet 
about thine arm is a link of the chain which the 
brown-clad one says is a magnetic chain. Do not 
believe it, O glorious one! See how it shines in the 
blue fire from the retort. One moment more and 
thou art free. And now, O maiden, open thy rose¬ 
bud mouth and tell me-” In this moment 

a gnarled fist leaped over my shoulder and clutched 
at the crystal bottle, which sprang into a thousand 
pieces in the air. With a faint, sad moan, the charm¬ 
ing vision faded into the blackness of the night. 

When morning came to put an end to my dream¬ 
ing I hurried through the avenue, seeking the de¬ 
serted house as usual and I saw something glistening 
in the last window of the upper story. Coming 
nearer I noticed that the outer blind had been quite 
drawn up and the inner curtain slightly opened. The 
sparkle of a diamond met my eye. O kind Heaven! 
The face of my dream looked at me, gently implor¬ 
ing, from above the rounded arm on which her head 
was resting. But how was it possible to stand still 
in the moving crowd without attracting attention? 
Suddenly I caught sight of the benches placed in the 
gravel walk in the centre of the avenue, and I saw 
that one of them was directly opposite the house. 
I sprang over to it, and leaning over its back, I could 
stare up at the mysterious window undisturbed. Yes, 
it was she, the charming maiden of my dream! But 
her eye did not seem to seek me as I had at first 
thought; her glance was cold and unfocused, and had 



68 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


it not been for an occasional motion of the hand 
and arm, I might have thought that I was looking 
at a cleverly painted picture. 

I was so lost in my adoration of the mysterious 
being in the window, so aroused and excited through¬ 
out all my nerve centres, that I did not hear the 
shrill voice of an Italian street hawker, who had 
been offering me his wares for some time. Finally 
he touched me on the arm; I turned hastily and com¬ 
manded him to let me alone. But he did not cease 
his entreaties, asserting that he had earned nothing 
today, and begging me to buy some small trifle from 
him. Full of impatience to get rid of him I put my 
hand in my pocket. With the words: “I have more 
beautiful things here,” he opened the under drawer 
of his box and held out to me a little, round pocket 
mirror. In it, as he held it up before my face, I 
could see the deserted house behind me, the window, 
and the sweet face of my vision there. 

I bought the little mirror at once, for I saw that 
it would make it possible for me to sit comfortably 
and inconspicuously, and yet watch the window. The 
longer I looked at the reflection in the glass, the 
more I fell captive to a weird and quite indescribable 
sensation, which I might almost call a waking dream. 
It was as if a lethargy had lamed my eyes, holding 
them fastened on the glass beyond my power to 
loosen them. And now at last the beautiful eyes of 
the fair vision looked at me, her glance sought mine 
and shone deep down into my heart. 

“You have a pretty little mirror there,” said a 


THE DESERTED HOUSE 


69 


voice beside me. I awoke from my dream, and was 
not a little confused when I saw smiling faces look¬ 
ing at me from either side. Several persons had 
sat down upon the bench, and it was quite certain 
that my staring into the window, and my probably 
strange expression, had afforded them great cause 
for amusement. 

“You have a pretty little mirror there,” repeated 
the man, as I did not answer him. His glance said 
more, and asked without words the reason of my 
staring so oddly into the little glass. He was an 
elderly man, neatly dressed, and his voice and eyes 
were so full of good nature that I could not refuse 
him my confidence. I told him that I had been look¬ 
ing in the mirror at the picture of a beautiful maiden 
who was sitting at a window of the deserted house. 
I went even farther; I asked the old man if he had 
not seen the fair face himself. “Over there? In 
the old house—in the last window?” He repeated 
my questions in a tone of surprise. 

“Yes, yes,” I exclaimed. 

The old man smiled and answered: “Well, well, 
that was a strange delusion. My old eyes—thank 
Heaven for my old eyes! Yes, yes, sir. I saw 
a pretty face in the window there, with my own eyes; 
but it seemed to me to be an excellently well-painted 
oil portrait.” 

I turned quickly and looked toward the window; 
there was no one there, and the blind had been pulled 
down. “Yes,” continued the old man, “yes, sir. 
Now it is too late to make sure of the matter, for 


70 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


just now the servant, who, as I know, lives there 

alone in the house of the Countess S-, took the 

picture away from the window after he had dusted it, 
and let down the blinds.” 

“Was it, then, surely a picture?” I asked again, 
in bewilderment. 

“You can trust my eyes,” replied the old man. 
“The optical delusion was strengthened by your see¬ 
ing only the reflection in the mirror. And when I 
was in your years it was easy enough for my fancy 
to call up the picture of a beautiful maiden.” 

“But the hand and arm moved,” I exclaimed. 
“Oh, yes, they moved, indeed they moved,” said the 
old man smiling, as he patted me on the shoulder. 
Then he arose to go, and bowing politely, closed his 
remarks with the words, “Beware of mirrors which 
can lie so vividly. Your obedient servant, sir.” 

You can imagine how I felt when I saw that he 
looked upon me as a foolish fantast. I hurried home 
full of anger and disgust, and promised myself that 
I would not think of the mysterious house. But I 
placed the mirror on my dressing-table that I might 
bind my cravat before it, and thus it happened one 
day, when I was about to utilize it for this important 
business, that its glass seemed dull, and that I took 
it up and breathed on it to rub it bright again. My 
heart seemed to stand still, every fiber in me trem¬ 
bled in delightful awe. Yes, that is all the name I 
can find for the feeling that came over me, when, 
as my breath clouded the little mirror, I saw the 
beautiful face of my dreams arise and smile at me 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 


71 


through blue mists. You laugh at me? You look 
upon me as an incorrigible dreamer? Think what 
you will about it—the fair face looked at me from 
out of the mirror! But as soon as the clouding 
vanished, and face vanished in the brightened glass. 

I will not weary you with a detailed recital of my 
sensations the next few days. I will only say that I 
repeated again the experiments with the mirror, 
sometimes with success, sometimes without. When 
I had not been able to call up the vision, I would run 
to the deserted house and stare up at the windows; 
but I saw no human being anywhere about the build¬ 
ing. I lived only in thoughts of my vision; every¬ 
thing else seemed indifferent to me. I neglected my 
friends and my studies. The tortures in my soul 
passed over into, or rather mingled with, physical 
sensations which frightened me, and which at last 
made me fear for my reason. One day, after an 
unusually severe attack, I put my little mirror in 

my pocket and hurried to the home of Dr. K-, 

who was noted for his treatment of those diseases 
of the mind out of which physical diseases so often 
grow. I told him my story; I did not conceal the 
slightest incident from him, and I implored him to 
save me from the terrible fate which seemed to 
threaten me. He listened to me quietly, but I read 
astonishment in his glance. Then he said: “The 
danger is not as near as you believe, and I think that 
I may say that it can be easily prevented. You are 
undergoing an unusual psychical disturbance, beyond 
a doubt. But the fact that you understand that some 



72 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


evil principle seems to be trying to influence you, 
gives you a weapon by which you can combat it. 
Leave your little mirror here with me, and force 
yourself to take up with some work which will afford 
scope for all your mental energy. Do not go to the 
avenue; work all day, from early to late, then take 
a long walk, and spend your evenings in the company 
of your friends. Eat heartily, and drink heavy, 
nourishing wines. You see I am endeavoring to com¬ 
bat your fixed idea of the face in the window of the 
deserted house and in the mirror, by diverting your 
mind to other things, and by strengthening your 
body. You yourself must help me in this.” 

I was very reluctant to part with my mirror. The 
physician, who had already taken it, seemed to notice 
my hesitation. He breathed upon the glass and hold¬ 
ing it up to me, he asked: “Do you see anything?” 

“Nothing at all,” I answered, for so it was. 

“Now breathe on the glass yourself,” said the 
physician, laying the mirror in my hands. 

I did as he requested. There was the vision even 
more clearly than ever before. 

“There she is!” I cried aloud. 

The physician looked into the glass, and then said: 
“I cannot see anything. But I will confess to you 
that when I looked into this glass, a queer shiver 
overcame me, passing away almost at once. Now do 
it once more.” 

I breathed upon the glass again and the physician 
laid his hand upon the back of my neck. The face 
appeared again, and the physician, looking into the 


THE DESERTED HOUSE 


73 


mirror over my shoulder, turned pale. Then he 
took the little glass from my hands, looked at it 
attentively, and locked it into his desk, returning to 
me after a few moments’ silent thought. 

“Follow my instructions strictly,” he said. “I 
must confess to you that I do not yet understand 
those moments of your vision. But I hope to be able 
to tell you more about it very soon.” 

Difficult as it was to me, I forced myself to live 
absolutely according to the doctor’s orders. I soon 
felt the benefit of the steady work and the nourishing 
diet, and yet I was not free from those terrible at¬ 
tacks, which would come either at noon, or, more 
intensely still, at midnight. Even in the midst of a 
merry company, in the enjoyment of wine and song, 
glowing daggers seemed to pierce my heart, and all 
the strength of my intellect was powerless to resist 
their might over me. I was obliged to retire, and 
could not return to my friends until I had recovered 
from my condition of lethargy. It was in one of 
these attacks, an unusually strong one, that such an 
irresistible, mad longing for the picture of my dreams 
came over me, that I hurried out into the street and 
ran toward the mysterious house. While still at a 
distance from it, I seemed to see lights shining out 
through the fast-closed blinds, but when I came 
nearer I saw that all was dark. Crazy with my 
desire I rushed to the door; it fell back before the 
pressure of my hand. I stood in the dimly lighted 
vestibule, enveloped in a heavy, close atmosphere. 
My heart beat in strange fear and impatience. Then 


74 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


suddenly a long, sharp tone, as from a woman’s 
throat, shrilled through the house. I know not how 
it happened that I found myself suddenly in a great 
hall brilliantly lighted and furnished in old-fashioned 
magnificence of golden chairs and strange Japanese 
ornaments. Strongly perfumed incense arose in blue 
clouds about me. “Welcome—welcome, sweet bride¬ 
groom! the hour has come, our bridal hour!” I 
heard these words in a woman’s voice, and as little 
as I can tell, how I came into the room, just so little 
do I know how it happened that suddenly a tall, 
youthful figure, richly dressed, seemed to arise from 
the blue mists. With the repeated shrill cry: “Wel¬ 
come, sweet bridegroom!” she came toward me with 
outstretched arms—and a yellow face, distorted with 
age and madness, stared into mine! I fell back in 
terror, but the fiery, piercing glance of her eyes, like 
the eyes of a snake, seemed to hold me spellbound. 
I did not seem able to turn my eyes from this terrible 
old woman, I could not move another step. She 
came still nearer, and it seemed to me suddenly as if 
her hideous face were only a thin mask, beneath 
which I saw the features of the beautiful maiden of 
my vision. Already I felt the touch of her hands, 
when suddenly she fell at my feet with a loud scream, 
and a voice behind me cried: 

“Oho, is the devil playing his tricks with your 
grace again? To bed, to bed, your grace. Else 
there will be blows, mighty blows!” 

I turned quickly and saw the old steward in his 
night clothes, swinging a whip above his head. He 


THE DESERTED HOUSE 


75 


was about to strike the screaming figure at my feet 
when I caught at his arm. But he shook me from 
him, exclaiming: “The devil, sir! That old Satan 
would have murdered you if I had not come to your 
aid. Get away from here at once!” 

I rushed from the hall, and sought in vain in the 
darkness for the door of the house. Behind me I 
heard the hissing blows of the whip and the old 
woman’s screams. I drew breath to call aloud for 
help, when suddenly the ground gave way under my 
feet; I fell down a short flight of stairs, bringing up 
with such force against a door at the bottom that it 
sprang open, and I measured my length on the floor 
of a small room. From the hastily vacated bed, and 
from the familiar brown coat hanging over a chair, 
I saw that I was in the bedchamber of the old 
steward. There was a trampling on the stair, and 
the old man himself entered hastily, throwing him¬ 
self at my feet. “By all the saints, sir,” he entreated 
with folded hands, “whoever you may be, and how¬ 
ever her grace, that old Satan of a witch has man¬ 
aged to entice you to this house, do not speak to 
anyone of what has happened here. It will cost me 
my position. Her crazy excellency has been pun¬ 
ished, and is bound fast in her bed. Sleep well, good 
sir, sleep softly and sweetly. It is a warm and beau¬ 
tiful July night. There is no moon, but the stars 
shine brightly. A quiet good night to you.” While 
talking, the old man had taken up a lamp, had led 
me out of the basement, pushed me out of the house 
door, and locked it behind me. I hurried home quite 


76 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


bewildered, and you can imagine that I was too much 
confused by the gruesome secret to be able to form 
any explanation of it in my own mind for the first few 
days. Only this much was certain, that I was now 
free from the evil spell that had held me captive so 
long. All my longing for the magic vision in the 
mirror had disappeared, and the memory of the 
scene in the deserted house was like the recollection 
of an unexpected visit to a madhouse. It was evident 
beyond a doubt that the steward was the tyrannical 
guardian of a crazy woman of noble birth, whose 
condition was to be hidden from the world. But the 
mirror? and all the other magic? Listen, and I will 
tell you more about it. 

Some few days later I came upon Count P-at 

an evening entertainment. He drew me to one side 
and said, with a smile, “Do you know that the secrets 
of our deserted house are beginning to be revealed?” 
I listened with interest; but before the Count could 
say more the doors of the dining-room were thrown 
open, and the company proceeded to the table. Quite 
lost in thought at the words I had just heard, I had 
given a young lady my arm, and had taken my place 
mechanically in the ceremonious procession. I led by 
companion to the seats arranged for us, and then 
turned to look at her for the first time. The vision 
of my mirror stood before me, feature for feature, 
there was no deception possible! I trembled to my 
innermost heart, as you can imagine; but I discovered 
that there was not the slightest echo even, in my 
heart, of the mad desire which had ruled me so 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 


77 


entirely when my breath drew out the magic picture 
from the glass. My astonishment, or rather my 
terror, must have been apparent in my eyes. The 
girl looked at me in such surprise that I endeavored 
to control myself .sufficiently to remark that I must 
have met her somewhere before. Her short answer, 
to the effect that this could hardly be possible, as she 
had come to the city only yesterday for the first time 
in her life, bewildered me still more and threw me 
into an awkward silence. The sweet glance from 
her gentle eyes brought back my courage, and I 
began a tentative exploring of this new companion’s 
mind. I found that I had before me a sweet and 
delicate being, suffering from some psychic trouble. 
At a particularly merry turn of the conversation, 
when I would throw in a daring word like a dash of 
pepper, she would smile, but her smile was pained, 
as if a wound had been touched. “You are not very 
merry to-night, Countess. Was it the visit this morn¬ 
ing?” An officer sitting near us had spoken these 
words to my companion, but before he could finish 
his remarks his neighbor had grasped him by the 
arm and whispered something in his ear, while a 
lady at the other side of the table, with glowing 
cheeks and angry eyes, began to talk loudly of the 
opera she had heard last evening. Tears came to the 
eyes of the girl sitting beside me. “Am I not fool¬ 
ish?” She turned to me. A few moments before 
she had complained of headache. “Merely the usual 
evidences of a nervous headache,” I answered in an 
easy tone, “and there is nothing better for it than 


78 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


the merry spirit which bubbles in the foam of this 
poet’s nectar.” With these words I filled her cham¬ 
pagne glass, and she sipped at it as she threw me a 
look of gratitude. Her mood brightened, and all 
would have been well had I not touched a glass 
before me with unexpected strength, arousing from 
it a shrill, high tone. My companion grew deadly 
pale, and I myself felt a sudden shiver, for the sound 
had exactly the tone of the mad woman’s voice in the 
deserted house. 

While we were drinking coffee I made an oppor¬ 
tunity to get to the side of Count P-. He under¬ 

stood the reason for my movement. “Do you know 

that your neighbor is Countess Edwina S-? And 

do you know also that it is her mother’s sister who 
lives in the deserted house, incurably mad for many 
years? This morning both mother and daughter 
went to see the unfortunate woman. The old 
steward, the only person who is able to control the 
Countess in her outbreaks, is seriously ill, and they 
say that the sister has finally revealed the secret to 
Dr. K-.” 

Dr. K- was the physician to whom I had 

turned in my own anxiety, and you can well imagine 
that I hurried to him as soon as I was free, and told 
him all that had happened to me in the last days. I 
asked him to tell me as much as he could about the 
mad woman, for my own peace of mind; and this is 
what I learned from him under promise of secrecy. 

“Angelica, Countess Z-,” thus the doctor be¬ 

gan, “had already passed her thirtieth year, but was 







THE DESERTED HOUSE 


79 


still in full possession of great beauty, when Count 

S-, although much younger than she, became so 

fascinated by her charm that he wooed her with 
ardent devotion and followed her to her father’s 
home to try his luck there. But scarcely had the 
Count entered the house, scarcely had he caught sight 
of Angelica’s younger sister, Gabrielle, when he 
awoke as from a dream. The elder sister appeared 
faded and colorless beside Gabrielle, whose beauty 
and charm so enthralled the Count that he begged 
her hand of her father. Count Z-gave his con¬ 

sent easily, as there was no doubt of Gabrielle’s feel¬ 
ings toward her suitor. Angelica did not show the 
slightest anger at her lover’s faithlessness. “He 
believes that he has forsaken me, the foolish boy! 
He does not perceive that he was but my toy, a toy 
of which I had tired.” Thus she spoke in proud 
scorn, and not a look or an action on her part belied 
her words. But after the ceremonious betrothal of 

Gabrielle to Count S-, Angelica was seldom seen 

by the members of her family. She did not appear 
at the dinner table, and it was said that she spent 
most of her time walking alone in the neighboring 
wood. 

“A strange occurrence disturbed the monotonous 
quiet of life in the castle. The hunters of Count 

Z-, assisted by peasants from the village, had 

captured a band of gypsies who were accused of 
several robberies and murders which had happened 
recently in the neighborhood. The men were 
brought to the castle court-yard, fettered together 






80 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


on a long chain, while the women and children were 
packed on a cart. Noticeable among the last was 
a tall, haggard old woman of terrifying aspect, 
wrapped from head to foot in a red shawl. She 
stood upright in the cart, and in an imperious tone 
demanded that she should be allowed to descend. 
The guards were so awed by her manner and appear¬ 
ance that they obeyed her at once. 

“Count Z- came down to the courtyard and 

commanded that the gang should be placed in the 
prisons under the castle. Suddenly Countess An¬ 
gelica rushed out of the door, her hair all loose, fear 
and anxiety in her pale face. Throwing herself on 
her knees, she cried in a piercing voice, ‘Let these 
people go! Let these people go! They are inno¬ 
cent! Father, let these people go! If you shed one 
drop of their blood I will pierce my heart with this 
knife!’ The Countess swung a shining knife in the 
air and then sank swooning to the ground. ‘Yes, my 
beautiful darling—my golden child—I knew you 
would not let them hurt us,’ shrilled the old woman 
in red. She cowered beside the Countess and pressed 
disgusting kisses to her face and breast, murmuring 
crazy words. She took from out the recesses of her 
shawl a little vial in which a tiny goldfish seemed to 
swim in some silver-clear liquid. She held the vial 
to the Countess’s heart. The latter regained con¬ 
sciousness immediately. When her eyes fell on the 
gypsy woman, she sprang up, clasped the old creature 
ardently in her arms, and hurried with her into the 
castle. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 


81 


“Count Z-, Gabrielle, and her lover, who had 

come out during this scene, watched it in astonished 
awe. The gypsies appeared quite indifferent. They 
were loosed from their chains and taken separately 

to the prisons. Next morning Count Z- called 

the villagers together. The gypsies were led before 
them and the Count announced that he had found 
them to be innocent of the crimes of which they were 
accused, and that he would grant them free passage 
through his domains. To the astonishment of all 
present, their fetters were struck off and they were 
set at liberty. The red-shawled woman was not 
among them. It was whispered that the gypsy cap¬ 
tain, recognizable from the golden chain about his 
neck and the red feather in his high Spanish hat, 
had paid a secret visit to the Count’s room the night 
before. But it was discovered a short time after the 
release of the gypsies, that they were indeed guiltless 
of the robberies and murders that had disturbed the 
district. 

“The date set for Gabrielle’s wedding approached. 
One day, to her great astonishment, she saw several 
large wagons in the courtyard being packed high 
with furniture, clothing, linen, with everything neces¬ 
sary for a complete household outfit. The wagons 
were driven away, and the following day Count 

Z- explained that, for many reasons, he had 

thought it best to grant Angelica’s odd request that 
she be allowed to set up her own establishment in his 

house in X-. He had given the house to her, 

and had promised her that no member of the family, 






82 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


not even he himself, should enter it without her ex¬ 
press permission. He added also, that, at her urgent 
request, he had permitted his own valet to accompany 
her, to take charge of her household. 

“When the wedding festivities were over, Count 

S-and his bride departed for their home, where 

they spent a year in cloudless happiness. Then the 
Count’s health failed mysteriously. It was as if 
some secret sorrow gnawed at his vitals, robbing him 
of joy and strength. All efforts of his young wife to 
discover the source of his trouble were fruitless. At 
last, when the constantly recurring fainting spells 
threatened to endanger his very life, he yielded to 
the entreaties of his physicians and left his home, 
ostensibly for Pisa. His young wife was prevented 
from accompanying him by the delicate condition of 
her own health. 

“And now,” said the doctor, “the information 

given me by Countess S-became, from this point 

on, so rhapsodical that a keen observer only could 
guess at the true coherence of the story. Her baby, 
a daughter, born during her husband’s absence, was 
spirited away from the house, and all search for it 
was fruitless. Her grief at this loss deepened to 
despair, when she received a message from her 
father stating that her husband, whom all believed 
to be in Pisa, had been found dying of heart trouble 
in Angelica’s home in X-, and that Angelica her¬ 

self had become a dangerous maniac. The old Count 
added that all this horror had so shaken his own 
nerves that he feared he would not long survive it. 





THE DESERTED HOUSE 


83 


“As soon as Gabrielle was able to leave her bed, 
she hurried to her father’s castle. One night, pre¬ 
vented from sleeping by visions of the loved ones she 
had lost, she seemed to hear a faint crying, like that 
of an infant, before the door of her chamber. Light¬ 
ing her candle she opened the door. Great Heaven! 
there cowered the old gypsy woman, wrapped in her 
red shawl, staring up at her with eyes that seemed 
already glazing in death. In her arms she held a 
little child, whose crying had aroused the Countess. 
Gabrielle’s heart beat high with joy—it was her 
child—her lost daughter! She snatched the infant 
from the gypsy’s arms, just as the woman fell at her 
feet lifeless. The Countess’ screams awoke the house, 
but the gypsy was quite dead and no effort to revive 
her met with success. 

“The old Count hurried to X- to endeavor 

to discover something that would throw light upon 
the mysterious disappearance and reappearance of 
the child. Angelica’s madness had frightened away 
all her female servants; the valet alone remained 
with her. She appeared at first to have become quite 
calm and sensible. But when the Count told her the 
story of Gabrielle’s child she clapped her hands and 
laughed aloud, crying: ‘Did the little darling arrive? 
You buried her, you say? How the feathers of the 
gold pheasant shine in the sun! Have you seen the 
green lion with the fiery blue eyes?’ Horrified the 
Count perceived that Angelica’s mind was gone be¬ 
yond a doubt, and he resolved to take her back with 
him to his estates, in spite of the warnings of his 



84 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


old valet. At the mere suggestion of removing her 
from the house Angelica’s ravings increased to such 
an extent as to endanger her own life and that of the 
others. 

“When a lucid interval came again Angelica en¬ 
treated her father, with many tears, to let her live 
and die in the house she had chosen. Touched by 
her terrible trouble, he granted her request, although 
he believed the confession which slipped from her 
lips during this scene to be a fantasy of her madness. 

She told him that Count S-had returned to her 

arms, and that the child which the gipsy had taken 
to her father’s house was the fruit of their love. The 

rumor went abroad in the city that Count Z-had 

taken the unfortunate woman to his home; but the 
truth was that she remained hidden in the deserted 

house under the care of the valet. Count Z- 

died a short time ago, and Countess Gabrielle came 
here with her daughter Edwina to arrange some 
family affairs. It was not possible for her to avoid 
seeing her unfortunate sister. Strange things must 
have happened during this visit, but the Countess 
has not confided anything to me, saying merely that 
she had found it necessary to take the mad woman 
away from the old valet. It had been discovered 
that he had controlled her outbreaks by means of 
force and physical cruelty; and that also, allured by 
Angelica’s assertions that she could make gold, he 
had allowed himself to assist her in her weird opera¬ 
tions. 

“I would be quite unnecessary,” thus the physician 





TIIR DESERTED HOUSE 


85 


ended his story, “ to say anything more to you about 
the deeper inward relationship of all these strange 
things. It is clear to my mind that it was you who 
brought about the catastrophe, a catastrophe which 
will mean recovery or speedy death for the sick 
woman. And now I will confess to you that I was 
not a little alarmed, horrified, even, to discover that 
—when I had set myself in magnetic communication 
with you by placing my hand on your neck—I could 
see the picture in the mirror with my own eyes. We 
both know now that the reflection in the glass was 
the face of Countess Edwina.” 

I repeat Dr. K-’s words in saying that, to my 

mind also, there is no further comment that can be 
made on all these facts. I consider it equally unneces¬ 
sary to discuss at any further length with you now 
the mysterious relationship between Angelica, Ed¬ 
wina, the old valet, and myself—a relationship which 
seemed the work of a malicious demon who was 
playing his tricks with us. I will add only that I 
left the city soon after all these events, driven from 
the place by an oppression I could not shake off. 
The uncanny sensation left me suddenly a month or 
so later, giving way to a feeling of intense relief that 
flowed through all my veins with the warmth of an 
electric current. I am convinced that this change 
within me came about in the moment when the mad 
woman died. 



THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN 
CITIES 

A Legend of St. Brandan, the Phantom Isle 
B y Washington Irving 

In the early part of the fifteenth century, when 
Prince Henry of Portugal was pushing the career of 
discovery along the western coast of Africa, and the 
world was resounding with reports of golden regions 
on the mainland, and new-found islands in the ocean, 
there arrived at Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of 
the seas, who had been driven by tempests, he knew 
not whither, and raved about an island far in the 
deep, upon which he had landed, and which he had 
found peopled with Christians and adorned with 
noble cities. 

The inhabitants, he said, having never before been 
visited by a ship, gathered round, and regarded him 
with surprise. They told him they were descend¬ 
ants of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain 
when that country was conquered by the Moslems. 
They were curious about the state of their father- 
land, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still held 

From “ Wolf erf s Roost.” 

86 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 87 


possession of the kingdom of Granada. They would 
have taken the old navigator to church, to convince 
him of their orthodoxy; but, either through lack of 
devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he declined 
their invitation, and preferred to return on board 
of his ship. He was properly punished. A furious 
storm arose, drove him from his anchorage, hurried 
him out to sea, and he saw no more of the unknown 
island. 

This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon 
and elsewhere. Those versed in history remem¬ 
bered to have read, in an ancient chronicle, that, at 
the time of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth cen¬ 
tury, when the blessed cross was cast down and the 
crescent erected in its place, and when Christian 
churches were turned into Moslem mosques, seven 
bishops, at the head of seven bands of pious exiles, 
had fled from the peninsula, and embarked in quest 
of some ocean island, or distant land, where they 
might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their 
faith unmolested. 

The fate of these saints errant had hitherto re¬ 
mained a mystery, and their story had faded from 
memory; the report of the old tempest-tossed pilot, 
however, revived this long-forgotten theme; and it 
was determined by the pious and enthusiastic that the 
island thus accidentally discovered was the identical 
place of refuge whither the wandering bishops had 
been guided by a protecting Providence, and where 
they had folded their flocks. 

This most excitable of worlds has always some 


88 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


darling object of chimerical enterprise; the “Island 
of the Seven Cities” now awakened as much interest 
and longing among zealous Christians as has the 
renowned city of Timbuctoo among adventurous 
travelers, or the Northeast passage among hardy 
navigators; and it was a frequent prayer of the 
devout, that these scattered and lost portions of the 
Christian family might be discovered and reunited 
to the great body of Christendom. 

No one, however, entered into the matter with 
half the zeal of Don Fernando de Ulmo, a young 
cavalier of high standing in the Portuguese court, 
and of most sanguine and romantic temperament. 
He had recently come to his estate, and had run the 
round of all kinds of pleasures and excitements when 
this new theme of popular talk and wonder presented 
itself. The Island of the Seven Cities became now 
the constant subject of his thoughts by day and his 
dreams by night; it even rivaled his passion for a 
beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, 
to whom he was betrothed. At length his imagina¬ 
tion became so inflamed on the subject, that he de¬ 
termined to fit out an expedition, at his own expense, 
and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It could 
not be a cruise of any great extent; for, according 
to the calculations of the tempest-tossed pilot, it must 
be somewhere in the latitude of the Canaries; which 
at that time, when the new world was as yet undis¬ 
covered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise. 
Don Fernando applied to the crown for countenance 
and protection. As he was a favorite at court, the 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 89 


usual patronage was readily extended to him; that 
is to say, he received a commission from the king, 
Don loam II., constituting him Adelantado, or mil¬ 
itary governor, of any country he might discover, 
with the single proviso, that he should bear all the 
expenses of the discovery, and pay a tenth of the 
profits to the crown. 

Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit 
of a projector. He sold acre after acre of solid 
land, and invested the proceeds in ships, guns, am¬ 
munition, and sea-stores. Even his old family 
mansion in Lisbon was mortgaged without scruple, 
for he looked forward to a palace in one of the 
Seven Cities, of which he was to be Adelantado. 
This was the age of nautical romance, when the 
thoughts of all speculative dreamers were turned to 
the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, there¬ 
fore, drew adventurers of every kind, 

One person alone regarded the whole project with 
sovereign contempt and growing hostility. This was 
Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of the beautiful 
Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He 
was one of those perverse, matter-of-fact old men, 
who are prone to oppose everything speculative and 
romantic. He had no faith in the Island of the Seven 
Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack- 
brained freak; looked with angry eye and internal 
heart-burning on the conduct of his intended son-in- 
law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the 
moon; and scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of 
Cloud Land. In fact, he had never really relished 


90 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


the intended match, to which his consent had been 
slowly extorted by the tears and entreaties of his 
daughter. It is true he could have no reasonable 
objections to the youth, for Don Fernando was the 
very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could 
excel him at the tilting match, or the riding at the 
ring; none was more bold and dexterous in the bull 
fight; none composed more gallant madrigals in 
praise of his lady’s charms, or sang them with 
sweeter tones to the accompaniment of her guitar; 
nor could any one handle the castanets and dance the 
bolero with more captivating grace. All these ad¬ 
mirable qualities and endowments, however, though 
they had been sufficient to win the heart of Serafina, 
were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonable father. 

The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first 
to throw an obstacle in the way of the expedition of 
Don Fernando, and for a time perplexed him in the 
extreme. He was passionately attached to the young 
lady; but he was also passionately bent on this ro¬ 
mantic enterprise. How should he reconcile the two 
passionate inclinations? A simple and obvious ar¬ 
rangement at length presented itself,—marry Sera¬ 
fina, enjoy a portion of the honeymoon at once, and 
defer the rest until his return from the discovery of 
the Seven Cities! 

He hastened to make known this most excellent 
arrangement to Don Ramiro, when the long smoth¬ 
ered wrath of the old cavalier burst forth. He 
reproached him with being the dupe of wandering 
vagabonds and wild schemers, and with squandering 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 91 


all his real possession, in pursuit of empty bubbles. 
Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector, and too 
young a man, to listen tamely to such language. A 
high quarrel ensued; Don Ramiro pronounced him 
a madman, and forbade all farther intercourse with 
his daughter until he should give proof of returning 
sanity by abandoning this madcap enterprise; while 
Don Fernando flung out of the house, more bent 
than ever on the expedition, from the idea of tri¬ 
umphing over the incredulity of the graybeard, when 
he should return successful. Don Ramiro’s heart 
misgave him. Who knows, thought he, but this 
crack-brained visionary may persuade my daughter 
to elope with him, and share his throne in this un¬ 
known paradise of fools? If I could only keep her 
safe until his ships are fairly out at sea! 

He repaired to her apartment, represented to her 
the sanguine, unsteady character of her lover and 
the chimerical value of his schemes, and urged the 
propriety of suspending all intercourse with him until 
he should recover from his present hallucination. 
She bowed her head as if in filial acquiescence, where¬ 
upon he folded her to his bosom with parental fond¬ 
ness and kissed away a tear that was stealing over 
her cheek, but as he left the chamber quietly turned 
the key in the lock; for though he was a fond father 
and had a high opinion of the submissive temper of 
his child, he had a still higher opinion of the con¬ 
servative virtues of lock and key, and determined 
to trust to them until the caravels should sail. 
Whether the damsel had been in anywise shaken in 


92 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


her faith as to the schemes of her father’s eloquence, 
tradition does not say; but certain it is, that, the 
moment she heard the key turn in the lock, she be¬ 
came a firm believer in the Island of the Seven Cities. 

The door was locked; but her will was unconfined. 
A window of the chamber opened into one of those 
stone balconies, secured by iron bars, which project 
like huge cages from Portuguese and Spanish houses. 
Within this balcony the beautiful Serafina had her 
birds and flowers, and here she was accustomed to 
sit on moonlight nights as in a bower, and touch her 
guitar and sing like a wakeful nightingale. From 
this balcony an intercourse was now maintained be¬ 
tween the lovers, against which the lock and key of 
Don Ramiro were of no avail. All day would 
Fernando be occupied hurrying the equipments of his 
ships, but evening found him in sweet discourse be¬ 
neath his lady’s window. 

At length the preparations were completed. Two 
gallant caravels lay at anchor in the Tagus ready to 
sail at sunrise. Late at night by the pale light of 
a waning moon the lover had his last interview. 
The beautiful Serafina was sad at heart and full of 
dark forebodings; her lover full of hope and con¬ 
fidence. “A few short months,” said he, “and I shall 
return in triumph. Thy father will then blush at 
his incredulity, and hasten to welcome to his house 
the Adelantado of the Seven Cities.” 

The gentle lady shook her head. It was not on 
this point she felt distrust. She was a thorough be¬ 
liever in the Island of the Seven Cities, and so sure 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 93 


of the success of the enterprise that she might have 
been tempted to join it had not the balcony been 
high and the grating strong. Other considerations 
induced that dubious shaking of the head. She had 
heard of the inconstancy of the seas, and the incon¬ 
stancy of those who roam them. Might not Fer¬ 
nando meet with other loves in foreign ports? 
Might not some peerless beauty in one or other of 
those Seven Cities efface the image of Serafina from 
his mind? 

She ventured to express her doubt, but he spurned 
at the very idea. “What! be false to Serafina! He 
bow at the shrine of another beauty? Never! 
Never!” Repeatedly did he bend his knee, and 
smite his breast, and call upon the silver moon to 
witness his sincerity and truth. 

He retorted the doubt, “Might not Serafina her¬ 
self forget her plighted faith? Might not some 
wealthier rival present himself while he was tossing 
on the sea; and, backed by her father’s wishes, win 
the treasure of her hand!” 

The beautiful Serafina raised her white arms be¬ 
tween the iron bars of the balcony, and, like her 
lover, invoked the moon to testify her vows. Alas! 
how little did Fernando know her heart. The more 
her father should oppose, the more would she be 
fixed in faith. Though years should intervene, Fer¬ 
nando on his return would find her true. Even 
should the salt sea swallow him up, never would 
she be the wife of another! Never, never, never! 
She drew from her finger a ring gemmed with a ruby 


94 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


heart, and dropped it from the balcony, a parting 
pledge of constancy. 

With the morning dawn the caravels dropped 
down the Tagus, and put to sea. They steered for 
the Canaries, in those days the regions of nautical 
discovery and romance, and the outposts of the 
known world, for as yet Columbus had not steered 
his daring barks across the ocean. Scarce had they 
reached those latitudes when they were separated by 
a violent tempest. For many days was the caravel 
of Don Fernando driven about at the mercy of the 
elements; all seamanship was baffled, destruction 
seemed inevitable and the crew were in despair. All 
at once the storm subsided; the ocean sank into a 
calm; the clouds which had veiled the face of heaven 
were suddenly withdrawn, and the tempest-tossed 
mariners beheld a fair and mountainous island, 
emerging as if by enchantment from the murky 
gloom. They rubbed their eyes and gazed for a 
time almost incredulously, yet there lay the island 
spread out in lovely landscapes, with the late stormy 
sea laving its shores with peaceful billows. 

The pilot of the caravel consulted his maps and 
charts; no island like the one before him was laid 
down as existing in those parts; it is true he had lost 
his reckoning in the late storm, but, according to his 
calculations, he could not be far from the Canaries; 
and this was not one of that group of islands. The 
caravel now lay perfectly becalmed off the mouth 
of a river, on the banks of which, about a league 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 95 


from the sea, was descried a noble city, with lofty 
walls and towers, and a protecting castle. 

After a time, a stately barge with sixteen oars was 
seen emerging from the river, and approaching the 
caravel. It was quaintly carved and gilt; the oars¬ 
men were clad in antique garb, their oars painted of 
a bright crimson, and they came slowly and solemnly, 
keeping time as they rowed to the cadence of an old 
Spanish ditty. Under a silken canopy in the stern, 
sat a cavalier richly clad, and over his head was a 
banner bearing the sacred emblem of the cross. 

When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier 
stepped on board. He was tall and gaunt; with a 
long Spanish visage, moustaches that curled up to 
his eyes, and a forked beard. He wore gauntlets 
reaching to his elbows, a Toledo blade strutting out 
behind, with a basket hilt, in which he carried his 
handkerchief. His air was lofty and precise, and 
bespoke indisputably the hidalgo. Thrusting out a 
long spindle leg, he took off a huge sombrero, and 
swaying it until the feather swept the ground, ac¬ 
costed Don Fernando in the old Castilian language, 
and with the old Castilian courtesy, welcoming him 
to the Island of the Seven Cities. 

Don Fernando was overwhelmed with astonish¬ 
ment. Could this be true? Had he really been 
tempest-driven to the very land of which he was in 
quest? 

It was even so. That very day the inhabitants 
were holding high festival in commemoration of the 
escape of their ancestors from the Moors. The 


96 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


arrival of the caravel at such a juncture was consid¬ 
ered a good omen, the accomplishment of an ancient 
prophecy through which the island was to be restored 
to the great community of Christendom. The cav¬ 
alier before him was grand chamberlain, sent by the 
alcayde to invite him to the festivities of the capital. 

Don Fernando could scarce believe that this was 
not all a dream. He had known his name and the 
object of his voyage. The grand chamberlain de¬ 
clared that all was in perfect accordance with the 
ancient prophecy, and that the moment his creden¬ 
tials were presented, he would be acknowledged as 
the Adelantado of the Seven Cities. In the mean¬ 
time the day was waning; the barge was ready to 
convey him to the land, and would as assuredly bring 
him back. 

Don Fernando’s pilot, a veteran of the seas, drew 
him aside and expostulated against his venturing, on 
the mere word of a stranger, to land in a strange 
barge on an unknown shore. “Who knows, Senor, 
what land this is, or what people inhabit it?” 

Don Fernando was not to be dissuaded. Had he 
not believed in this island when all the world 
doubted? Had he not sought it in defiance of storm 
and tempest, and was he now to shrink from its 
shores when they lay before him in calm weather? 
In a word, was not faith the very corner-stone of his 
enterprise? 

Having arrayed himself, therefore, in gala dress 
befitting the occasion, he took his seat in the barge. 
The grand chamberlain seated himself opposite. 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 97 

The rowers plied their oars, and renewed the mourn¬ 
ful old ditty, and the gorgeous but unwieldly barge 
moved slowly through the water. 

The night closed in before they entered the river, 
and swept along past rock and promontory, each 
guarded by its tower. At every post they were chal¬ 
lenged by the sentinel. 

“Who goes there?” 

“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.” 

“Welcome, Senor Adelantado. Pass on.” 

Entering the harbor they rowed close by an armed 
galley of ancient form. Soldiers with crossbows 
patroled the deck. 

“Who goes there?” 

“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.” 

“Welcome, Senor Adelantado. Pass on.” 

They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, lead¬ 
ing up between two massive towers, and knocked at 
the water-gate. A sentinel, in ancient steel casque, 
looked from the barbican. 

“Who is there?” 

“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.” 

“Welcome, Senor Adelantado.” 

The gate swung open, grating upon rusty hinges. 
They entered between two rows of warriors in 
Gothic armor, with crossbows, maces, battle-axes, 
and faces old-fashioned as their armor. There 
were processions through the streets, in commemo¬ 
ration of the landing of the seven bishops and their 
followers, and bonfires at which effigies of Moors 
expiated their invasion of Christendom by a kind 


98 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


of auto-da-fe. The groups round the fires, uncouth 
in their attire, looked like the fantastic figures that 
roam the streets in carnival time. Even the dames 
who gazed down from Gothic balconies hung with 
antique tapestry, resembled effigies dressed up in 
Christmas mummeries. Everything, in short, bore 
the stamp of former ages, as if the world had sud¬ 
denly rolled back for several centuries. Nor was 
this to be wondered at. Had not the Island of the 
Seven Cities been cut off from the rest of the world 
for several hundred years; and were not these the 
modes and customs of Gothic Spain before it was 
conquered by the Moors? 

Arrived at the palace of the alcayde, the grand 
chamberlain knocked at the portal. The porter 
looked through a wicket, and demanded who was 
there. 

“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.” 

The portal was thrown wide open. The grand 
chamberlain led the way up a vast, heavily molded, 
marble staircase, and into a hall of ceremony, where 
was the alcayde with several of the principal digni¬ 
taries of the city, who had a marvelous resemblance, 
in form and feature, to the quaint figures in old il¬ 
luminated manuscripts. 

The grand chamberlain stepped forward and an¬ 
nounced the name and title of the stranger guest, 
and the extraordinary nature of his mission. The 
announcement appeared to create no extraordinary 
emotion or surprise, but to be received as the antici¬ 
pated fulfilment of a prophecy. 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 99 


The reception of Don Fernando, however, was 
profoundly gracious, though in the same style of 
stately courtesy which everywhere prevailed. He 
would have produced his credentials, but this was 
courteously declined. The evening was devoted to 
high festivity; the following day, when he should 
enter the port with his caravel, would be devoted 
to business, when the credentials would be received 
in due form, and he inducted into office as Adelan- 
tado of the Seven Cities. 

Don Fernando was now conducted through one 
of those interminable suites of apartments, the pride 
of Spanish palaces, all furnished in a style of obso¬ 
lete magnificence. In a vast saloon, blazing with 
tapers, was assembled all the aristocracy and fashion 
of the city,—stately dames and cavaliers, the very 
counterpart of the figures in the tapestry which deco¬ 
rated the walls. Fernando gazed in silent marvel. 
It was a reflex of the proud aristocracy of Spain in 
the time of Roderick the Goth. 

The festivities of the evening were all in the style 
of solemn and antiquated ceremonial. There was 
a dance, but it was as if the old tapestry were put 
in motion, and all the figures moving in stately meas¬ 
ure about the floor. There was one exception, and 
one that told powerfully upon the susceptible Ada- 
lantado. The alcayde’s daughter—such a ripe, melt¬ 
ing beauty! Her dress, it is true, like the dresses of 
her neighbors, might have been worn before the 
flood, but she had the black Andalusian eye, a glance 
of which, through its long dark lashes, is irresistible. 


100 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Her voice, too, her manner, her undulating move¬ 
ments, all smacked of Andalusia, and showed how 
female charms may be transmitted from age to age, 
and clime to clime, without ever going out of fashion. 

Don Fernando sat beside her at the banquet! such 
an old-world feast! such obsolete dainties! At the 
head of the table the peacock, that bird of state and 
ceremony, was served up in full plumage on a golden 
dish. As Don Fernando cast his eyes down the glit¬ 
tering board, what a vista presented itself of odd^ 
heads and head-dresses; of formal bearded digni¬ 
taries, and stately dames, with castellated locks and 
towering plumes! Is it to be wondered at that he 
should turn with delight from these antiquated fig¬ 
ures to the alcayde’s daughter, all smiles and 
dimples, and melting looks and melting accents? 
Besides, he was in a particularly excitable mood from 
the novelty of the scene before him, from this real¬ 
ization of all his hopes and fancies, and from fre¬ 
quent draughts of the wine-cup, presented to him at 
every moment by officious pages during the banquet. 

In a word—there is no concealing the matter— 
before the evening was over, Don Fernando was 
making love outright to the alcayde’s daughter. 
They had wandered together to a moon-lit balcony 
of the palace, and he was charming her ear with one 
of those love-ditties with which, in a like balcony, 
he had serenaded the beautiful Serafina. 

The damsel hung her head coyly. “Ah! Senor, 
these are flattering words; but you cavaliers, who 
roam the seas, are unsteady as its waves. To-mor- 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 101 


row you will be throned in state, Adelantado of the 
Seven Cities; and will think no more of the alcayde’s 
daughter.” 

Don Fernando in the intoxication of the moment 
called the moon to witness his sincerity. As he 
raised his hand in adjuration, the chaste moon cast 
a ray upon the ring that sparkled on his finger. It 
caught the damsel’s eye. “Signor Adalantado,” said 
she archly, “I have no great faith in the moon, but 
give me that ring upon your finger in pledge of the 
truth of what you profess.” 

The gallant Adelantado was taken by surprise; 
there was no parrying this sudden appeal; before he 
had time to reflect, the ring of the beautiful Serafina 
glittered on the finger of the alcayde’s daughter. 

At this eventful moment the chamberlain ap¬ 
proached with lofty demeanor, and announced that 
the barge was waiting to bear him back to the cara¬ 
vel. I forbear to relate the ceremonious partings 
with the alcayde and his dignitaries, and the tender 
farewell of the alcayde’s daughter. He took his 
seat in the barge opposite the grand chamberlain. 
The rowers plied their crimson oars in the same slow 
and stately manner, to the cadence of the same 
mournful old ditty. His brain was in a whirl with 
all that he had seen, and his heart now and then 
gave him a twinge as he thought of his temporary 
infidelity to the beautiful Serafina. The barge sal¬ 
lied out into the sea, but no caravel was to be seen; 
doubtless she had been carried to a distance by the 
current of the river. The oarsmen rowed on; their 


102 FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 

monotonous chant had a lulling effect. A drowsy 
influence crept over Don Fernando. Objects swam 
before his eyes. The oarsmen assumed odd shapes 
as in a dream. The grand chamberlain grew larger 
and larger, and taller and taller. He took off his 
huge sombrero, and held it over the head of Don 
Fernando, like an extinguisher over a candle. The 
latter cowered beneath it; he felt himself sinking 
in the socket. 

“Good night! Senor Adelantado of the Seven 
Cities!” said the grand chamberlain. 

The sombrero slowly descended—Don Fernando 
was extinguished! 

How long he remained extinct no mortal man can 
tell. When he returned to consciousness, he found 
himself in a strange cabin, surrounded by strangers. 
He rubbed his eyes, and looked round him wildly. 
Where was he?—On board a Portuguese ship, 
bound to Lisbon. How came he there?— He had 
been taken senseless from a wreck drifting about the 
ocean. 

Don Fernando was more and more confounded 
and perplexed. He recalled, one by one, everything 
that had happened to him in the Island of the Seven 
Cities, until he had been extinguished by the som¬ 
brero of the grand chamberlain. But what had 
happened to him since? What had become of his 
caravel? Was it the wreck of her on which he had 
been found floating? 

The people about him could give no information 
on the subject. He entreated them to take him to 


THE ADELANTADO OF TIIE SEVEN CITIES 103 


the Island of the Seven Cities, which could not be 
far off; told them all that had befallen him there; 
that he had but to land to be received as Adelantado; 
when he would reward them magnificently for their 
services. 

They regarded his words as the ravings of delir¬ 
ium, and in their honest solicitude for the restoration 
of his reason, administered such rough remedies that 
he was fain to drop the subject and observe a cau¬ 
tious taciturnity. 

At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored 
before the famous city of Lisbon. Don Fernando 
sprang joyfully on shore, and hastened to his an¬ 
cestral mansion. A strange porter opened the door, 
who knew nothing of him or his family; no people 
of the name had inhabited the house for many a year. 

He sought the mansion of Don Ramiro. He ap¬ 
proached the balcony beneath which he had bidden 
farewell to Serafina. Did his eyes deceive him? 
No! There was Serafina herself among the flowers 
in the balcony. He raised his arms toward her with 
an exclamation of rapture. She cast upon him a 
look of indignation, and hastily retiring, closed the 
casement with a slam that testified her displeasure. 

Could she have heard of his flirtation with the 
alcayde’s daughter? But that was mere transient 
gallantry. A moment’s interview would dispel every 
doubt of his constancy. 

He rang at the door; as it was opened by the 
porter he rushed up-stairs; sought the well-known 
chamber, and threw himself at the feet of Serafina. 


104 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


She started back with affright, and took refuge in 
the arms of a youthful cavalier. 

“What mean you, Sehor,” cried the latter, “by 
this intrusion?” 

“What right have you to ask the question?” de¬ 
manded Don Fernando fiercely. 

“The right of an affianced suitor!” 

Don Fernando started and turned pale. “Oh, 
Serafina! Serafina!” cried he, in a tone of agony; 
<T is this thy plighted constancy?” 

“Serafina? What mean you by Serafina, Sehor? 
If this be the lady you intend, her name is Maria.” 

“May I not believe my senses? May I not believe 
my heart?” cried Don Fernando. “Is not this Sera¬ 
fina Alvarez, the original of yon portrait, which, 
less fickle than herself, still smiles on me from the 
wall?” 

“Holy Virgin!” cried the young lady, casting her 
eyes upon the portrait. “He is talking of my great- 
grand-mother !” 

An explanation ensued, if that could be called an 
explanation which plunged the unfortunate Fernando 
into tenfold perplexity. If he might believe his eyes, 
he saw before him his beloved Serafina; if he might 
believe his ears, it was merely her hereditary form 
and features, perpetuated in the person of her great- 
granddaughter. 

His brain began to spin. He sought the office of 
the Minister of Marine, and made a report of his 
expedition, and of the Island of the Seven Cities, 
which he had so fortunately discovered. Nobody 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 105 


knew anything of such an expedition, or such an 
island. He declared that he had undertaken the 
enterprise under a formal contract with the crown, 
and had received a regular commission, constituting 
him Adelantado. This must be matter of record, 
and he insisted loudly that the books of the depart¬ 
ment should be consulted. The wordy strife at 
length attracted the attention of an old gray-headed 
clerk, who sat perched on a high stool, at a high 
desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles on the top of a 
thin, pinched nose, copying records into an enormous 
folio. He had wintered and summered in the de¬ 
partment for a great part of a century, until he had 
almost grown to be a piece of the desk at which he 
sat; his memory was a mere index of official facts 
and documents, and his brain was little better than 
red tape and parchment. After peering down for 
a time from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the 
matter in controversy, he put his pen behind his ear, 
and descended. He remembered to have heard 
something from his predecessor about an expedition 
of the kind in question, but then it had sailed dur¬ 
ing the reign of Don loam II., and he had been dead 
at least a hundred years. To put the matter beyond 
dispute, however, the archives of the Tore do 
Tombo, that sepulchre of old Portuguese documents, 
were diligently searched, and a record was found of 
a contract between the crown and one Fernando de 
Ulmo, for the discovery of the Island of the Seven 
Cities, and of a commission secured to him as Ade¬ 
lantado of the country he might discover. 


106 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“There!” cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, 
“there you have proof, before your own eyes, of 
what I have said. I am the Fernando de Ulmo 
specified in that record. I have discovered the Island 
of the Seven Cities, and am entitled to be Adelan- 
tado, according to contract.” 

The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what 
is pronounced the best of historical foundation, docu¬ 
mentary evidence; but when a man, in the bloom of 
youth, talked of events that had taken place above 
a century previously, as having happened to himself, 
it is no wonder that he was set down for a madman. 

The old clerk looked at him from above and be¬ 
low his spectacles, shrugged his shoulders, stroked 
his chin, reascended his lofty stool, took the pen 
from behind his ears, and resumed his daily and 
eternal task, copying records into the fiftieth volume 
of a series of gigantic folios. The other clerks 
winked at each other shrewdly, and dispersed to 
their several places, and poor Don Fernando, thus 
left to himself, flung out of the office, almost driven 
wild by these repeated perplexities. 

In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively re¬ 
paired to the mansion of Alvarez, but it was barred 
against him. To break the delusion under which 
the youth apparently labored, and to convince him 
that the Serafina about whom he raved was really 
dead, he was conducted to her tomb. There she 
lay, a stately matron, cut out in alabaster; and there 
lay her husband beside her, a portly cavalier, in 
armor; and there knelt on each side, the effigies of 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 107 

a numerous progeny. Even the very monument gave 
evidence of the lapse of time; the hands of her hus¬ 
band, folded as if in prayer, had lost their fingers, 
and the face of the once lovely Serafina was without 
a nose. 

Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation 
at beholding this monumental proof of the incon¬ 
stancy of his mistress; but who could expect a mis¬ 
tress to remain constant during a whole century of 
absence? And what right had he to rail about con¬ 
stancy, after what had passed between himself and 
the alcayde’s daughter? The unfortunate cavalier 
performed one pious act of tender devotion; he had 
the alabaster nose of Serafina restored by a skillful 
statuary, and then tore himself from the tomb. 

He could now no longer doubt the fact that, some¬ 
how or other, he had skipped over a whole century, 
during the night he had spent at the Island of the 
Seven Cities; and he was now as complete a stranger 
in his native city, as if he had never been there. A 
thousand times did he wish himself back to that 
wonderful island, with its antiquated banquet halls, 
where he had been so courteously received; and now 
that the once young and beautiful Serafina was noth¬ 
ing but a great-grandmother in marble, with genera¬ 
tions of descendants, a thousand times would he re¬ 
call the melting black eyes of the alcayde’s daughter, 
who doubtless, like himself, was still flourishing in 
fresh juvenility, and breathe a secret wish that he 
was seated by her side. 

He would at once have set on foot another expe- 


108 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


dition, at his own expense, to cruise in search of the 
sainted island, but his means were exhausted. He 
endeavored to rouse others to the enterprise, setting 
forth the certainty of profitable results, of which his 
own experience furnished such unquestionable proof. 
Alas! no one would give faith to his tale; but looked 
upon it as the feverish dream of a shipwrecked man. 
He persisted in his efforts; holding forth in all places 
and all companies, until he became an object of jest 
and jeer to the light-minded, who mistook his earnest 
enthusiasm for a proof of insanity; and the very 
children in the streets bantered him with the title of 
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.” 

Finding all efforts in vain, in his native city of 
Lisbon, he took shipping for the Canaries, as being 
nearer the latitude of his former cruise, and in¬ 
habited by people given to nautical adventure. Here 
he found ready listeners to his story; for the old 
pilots and mariners of those parts were notorious 
island-hunters, and devout believers in all the won¬ 
ders of the seas. Indeed, one and all treated his ad¬ 
venture as a common occurrence, and turning to each 
'other, with a sagacious nod of the head, observed, 
“He has been at the island of St. Brandan.” 

They then went on to inform him of that great 
marvel and enigma of the ocean; of its repeated ap¬ 
pearance to the inhabitants of their islands; and of 
the many but ineffectual expeditions that had been 
made in search of it. They took him to a promon¬ 
tory of the island of Palma, whence the shadowy St. 
Brandan had oftenest been descried, and they 


THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 109 

pointed out the very tract in the west where its moun¬ 
tains had been seen. 

Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He 
had no longer a doubt that this mysterious and fu¬ 
gacious island must be the same with that of the 
Seven Cities; and that some supernatural influence 
connected with it had operated upon himself, and 
made the events of a night occupy the space of a 
century. 

He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders 
to another attempt at discovery; they had given up 
the phantom island as indeed inaccessible. Fer¬ 
nando, however, was not to be discouraged. The 
idea wore itself deeper and deeper in his mind, until 
it became the engrossing subject of his thoughts and 
object of his being. Every morning he would repair 
to the promontory of Palma, and sit there through¬ 
out the livelong day, in hopes of seeing the fairy 
mountains of St. Brandan peering above the hori¬ 
zon; every evening he returned to his home, a dis¬ 
appointed man, but ready to resume his post on the 
following morning. * 

His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his 
ineffectual attempt; and was at length found dead 
at his post. His grave is still shown in the island of 
Palma, and a cross is erected on the spot where he 
used to sit and look out upon the sea, in hopes of 
the reappearance of the phantom island. 


THE PIPE 


Anonymous 

I 

“Randolph Crescent, N. W. 
“My dear Pugh —I hope you will like the pipe 
which I send with this. It is rather a curious ex¬ 
ample of a certain school of Indian carving. And is 
a present from 

“Yours truly, Joseph Tress.” 

It w r as really very handsome of Tress—very 
handsome! The more especially as I was aware 
that to give presents was not exactly in Tress’s line. 
The truth is that when I saw what manner of pipe 
it was, I was amazed It was contained in a sandal¬ 
wood box, which was itself illustrated with some 
remarkable specimens of carving. I use the word 
“remarkable” advisedly, because, although the work¬ 
manship was undoubtedly, in its way, artistic, the 
result could not be described as beautiful. The 
carver had thought proper to ornament the box with 
some of the ugliest figures I remember to have seen. 
They appeared to me to be devils. Or perhaps 
they were intended to represent deities appertaining 
to some mythological system with which, thank good- 


no 


THE PIPE 


111 


ness, I am unacquainted. The pipe itself was worthy 
of the case in which it was contained. It was of 
meerschaum, with an amber mouthpiece. It was 
rather too large for ordinary smoking. But then, 
of course, one doesn’t smoke a pipe like that. There 
are pipes in my collection which I should as soon 
think of smoking as I should of eating. Ask a china 
maniac to let you have afternoon tea out of his Old 
Chelsea, and you will learn some home truths as to 
the durability of human friendships. The glory of 
the pipe, as Tress had suggested, lay in its carving. 
Not that I claim that it was beautiful, any more than 
I make such a claim for the carving on the box, but, 
as Tress said in his note, it was curious. 

The stem and the bowl were quite plain, but on 
the edge of the bowl was perched some kind of 
lizard. I told myself it was an octopus when I first 
saw it, but I have since had reason to believe that 
it was some almost unique member of the lizard 
tribe. The creature was represented as climbing 
over the edge of the bowl down toward the stem, 
and its legs, or feelers, or tentacula, or whatever 
the things are called, were, if I may use a vulgarism, 
sprawling about “all over the place.” For instance, 
two or three of them were twined about the bowl, 
two or three of them were twisted round the stem, 
and one, a particularly horrible one, was uplifted in 
the air, so that if you put the pipe in your mouth 
the thing was pointing straight at your nose. 

Not the least agreeable feature about the creature 
was that it was hideously lifelike. It appeared to 


112 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


have been carved in amber, but some coloring mat¬ 
ter must have been introduced, for inside the amber 
the creature was of a peculiarly ghastly green. The 
more I examined the pipe the more amazed I was 
at Tress’s generosity. He and I are rival collectors. 
I am not going to say, in so many words, that his 
collection of pipes contains nothing but rubbish, be¬ 
cause, as a matter of fact, he has two or three rather 
decent specimens. But to compare his collection to 
mine would be absurd. Tress is conscious of this, 
and he resents it to such an extent that he has been 
known, at least on one occasion, to declare that one 
single pipe of his—I believe he alluded to the Brum¬ 
magem relic preposterously attributed to Sir Walter 
Raleigh—was worth the whole of my collection put 
together. Although I have forgiven this, as I hope 
I always shall forgive remarks made when envious 
passions get the better of our nobler nature, even 
of a Joseph Tress, it is not to be supposed that I 
have forgotten it. He was, therefore, not at all the 
sort of person from whom I expected to receive a 
present. And such a present! I do not believe that 
he himself had a finer pipe in his collection. And 
to have given it to me! I had misjudged the man. 
I wondered where he had got it from. I had seen 
his pipes; I knew them off by heart—and some nice 
trumpery he has among them, too! but I had never 
seen that pipe before. The more I looked at it, the 
more my amazement grew. The beast perched 
upon the edge of the bowl was so lifelike. Its two 
bead-like eyes seemed to gleam at me with positively 


THE PIPE 113 

human intelligence. The pipe fascinated me to such 
an extent that I actually resolved to—smoke it! 

I filled it with Perique. Ordinarily I use Birds¬ 
eye, but on those very rare occasions on which I use 
a specimen I smoke Perique. I lit up with quite a 
small sensation of excitement. As I did so I kept 
my eyes perforce fixed upon the beast. The beast 
pointed its upraised tentacle directly at me. As I 
inhaled the pungent tobacco that tentacle impressed 
me w r ith a feeling of actual uncanniness. It was 
broad daylight, and I w T as smoking in front of the 
window, yet to such an extent w T as I affected that it 
seemed to me that the tentacle was not only vibrat¬ 
ing, which, owing to the peculiarity of its position, 
was quite within the range of probability, but actu¬ 
ally moving, elongating—stretching forward, that 
is, farther toward me, and toward the tip of my 
nose. So impressed was I by this idea that I took 
the pipe out of my mouth and minutely examined 
the beast. Really, the delusion was excusable. So 
cunningly had the artist wrought that he succeeded 
in producing a creature which, such was its uncan¬ 
niness, I could only hope had no original in nature. 

Replacing the pipe between my lips I took several 
whiffs. Never had smoking had such an effect on 
me before. Either the pipe, or the creature on it, 
exercised some singular fascination. I seemed, 
without an instant’s warning, to be passing into some 
land of dreams. I saw the beast, which was perched 
upon the bowl, writhe and twist. I saw it lift itself 
bodily from the meerschaum. 


114 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


II 


“Feeling better now?” 

I looked up. Joseph Tress was speaking. 

“What’s the matter? Have I been ill?” 

“You appear to have been in some kind of 
swoon.” 

Tress’s tone was peculiar, even a little dry. 

“Swoon! I never was guilty of such a thing in 
my life.” 

“Nor was I, until I smoked that pipe.” 

I sat up. The act of sitting up made me conscious 
of the fact that I had been lying down. Conscious, 
too, that I was feeling more than a little dazed. It 
seemed as though I was waking out of some strange, 
lethargic sleep—a kind of feeling which I have read 
of and heard about, but never before experienced. 

“Where am I?” 

“You’re on the couch in your own room. You 
were on the floor; but I thought it would be better 
to pick you up and place you on the couch—though 
no one performed the same kind office to me when 
I was on the floor.” 

Again Tress’s tone was distinctly dry. 

“How came you here?” 

“Ah, that’s the question.” He rubbed his chin— 
a habit of his which has annoyed me more than once 
before. “Do you think you’re sufficiently recov¬ 
ered to enable you to understand a little simple ex¬ 
planation?” I stared at him, amazed. He went 


THE PIPE 


115 


on stroking his chin. “The truth is that when I sent 
you the pipe I made a slight omission.” 

“An omission?” 

“I omitted to advise you not to smoke it.” 

“And why?” 

“Because—well, I’ve reason to believe the thing 
is drugged.” 

“Drugged!” 

“Or poisoned.” 

“Poisoned!” I was wide awake enough then. I 
jumped off the couch with a celerity which proved 
it. 

“It is this way. I became its owner in rather a 
singular manner.” He paused, as if for me to 
make a remark; but I was silent. “It is not often 
that I smoke a specimen, but, for some reason, I 
did smoke this. I commenced to smoke it, that is. 
How long I continued to smoke it is more than I 
can say. It had on me the same peculiar effect 
which it appears to have had on you. When I re¬ 
covered consciousness I was lying on the floor.” 

“On the floor?” 

“On the floor. In about as uncomfortable a po¬ 
sition as you can easily conceive. I was lying face 
downward, with my legs bent under me. I was 
never so surprised in my life as I was when I found 
myself where I was. At first I supposed that I had 
had a stroke. But by degrees it dawned upon me 
that I didn’t feel as though I had had a stroke.” 
Tress, by the way, has been an army surgeon. “I 
was conscious of distinct nausea. Looking about, I 


116 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


saw the pipe. With me it had fallen on to the floor. 
I took it for granted, considering the delicacy of 
the carving, that the fall had broken it. But when 
I picked it up I found it quite uninjured. While I 
was examining it a thought flashed to my brain. 
Might it not be answerable for what had happened 
to me? Suppose, for instance, it was drugged? I 
had heard of such things. Besides, in my case were 
present all the symptoms of drug poisoning, though 
what drug had been used I couldn’t in the least con¬ 
ceive. I resolved that I would give the pipe an¬ 
other trial.” 

“On yourself? or on another party, meaning me?” 

“On myself, my dear Pugh—on myself! At that 
point of my investigations I had not begun to think 
of you. I lit up and had another smoke.” 

“With what result?” 

“Well, that depends on the standpoint from 
which you regard the thing. From one point of 
view the result was wholly satisfactory—I proved 
that the thing was drugged, and more.” 

“Did you have another fall?” 

“I did. And something else besides.” 

“On that account, I presume, you resolved to pass 
the treasure on to me?” 

“Partly on that account, and partly on another.” 

“On my word, I appreciate your generosity. You 
might have labeled the thing as poison.” 

“Exactly. But then you must remember how 
often you have told me that you never smoke your 
specimens.” 


THE PIPE 


117 


U 1 hat was no reason why you shouldn’t have 
given me a hint that the thing was more dangerous 
than dynamite.” 

“That did occur to me afterwards. Therefore I 
called to supply the slight omission.” 

Slight omission, you call it! I wonder what you 
would have called it if you had found me dead.” 

If I had known that you intended smoking it I 
should not have been at all surprised if I had.” 

“Really, Tress, I appreciate your kindness more 
and more! And where is this example of your splen¬ 
did benevolence? Have you pocketed it, regretting 
your lapse into the unaccustomed paths of generos¬ 
ity? Or is it smashed to atoms?” 

“Neither the one nor the other. You will find 
the pipe upon the table. I neither desire its restora¬ 
tion nor is it in any way injured. It is merely an 
expression of personal opinion when I say that I 
don’t believe that it could be injured. Of course, 
having discovered its deleterious properties, you will 
not want to smoke it again. You will therefore be 
able to enjoy the consciousness of being the possessor 
of what I honestly believe to be the most remarkable 
pipe in existence. Good day, Pugh.” 

He was gone before I could say a word. I im¬ 
mediately concluded, from the precipitancy of his 
flight, that the pipe was injured. But when I sub¬ 
jected it to close examination I could discover no 
signs of damage. While I was still eyeing it with 
jealous scrutiny the door reopened, and Tress came 
in again. 


118 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“By the way, Pugh, there is one thing I might 
mention, especially as I know it won’t make any dif¬ 
ference to you.” 

“That depends on what it is. If you have changed 
your mind, and want the pipe back again, I tell you 
frankly that it won’t. In my opinion, a thing once 
given is given for good.” 

“Quite so; I don’t want it back again. You may 
make your mind easy on that point. I merely 
wanted to tell you why I gave it you.” 

“You have told me that already.” 

“Only partly, my dear Pugh—only partly. You 
don’t suppose I should have given you such a pipe 
as that merely because it happened to be drugged? 
Scarcely! I gave it you because I discovered from 
indisputable evidence, and to my cost, that it was 
haunted.” 

“Haunted?” 

“Yes, haunted. Good day.” 

He was gone again. I ran out of the room, and 
shouted after him down the stairs. He was already 
at the bottom of the flight. 

“Tress! Come back! What do you mean by 
talking such nonsense?” 

“Of course it’s only nonsense. We know that 
that sort of thing always is nonsense. But if you 
should have reason to suppose that there is some¬ 
thing in it besides nonsense, you may think it worth 
your while to make inquiries of me. But I won’t 
have that pipe back again in my possession on any 
terms—mind that!” 


THE PIPE) 


119 


■The bang of the front door told me that he had 
gone out into the street. I let him go. I laughed 
to myself as I reentered the room. Haunted! That 
was not a bad idea of his. I saw the whole posi¬ 
tion at a glance. The truth of the matter was that 
he did regret his generosity, and he was ready to’ 
go any lengths if he could only succeed in cajoling 
me into restoring his gift. He was aware that I 
have views upon certain matters which are not 
wholly in accordance with those which are popularly 
supposed to be the views of the day, and particularly 
that on the question of what are commonly called 
supernatural visitations I have a standpoint of my 
own. Therefore, it was not a bad move on his part 
to try to make me believe that about the pipe on 
which he knew I had set my heart there was some¬ 
thing which could not be accounted for by ordinary 
laws. Yet, as his own sense would have told him 
it would do, if he had only allowed himself to reflect 
for a moment, the move failed. Because I am not 
yet so far gone as to suppose that a pipe, a thing 
of meerschaum and of amber, in the sense in which 
I understand the word, could be haunted—a pipe, 
a mere pipe. 

“Hollo! I thought the creature’s legs were 
twined right round the bowl!” 

I was holding the pipe in my hand, regarding it 
with the affectionate eyes with which a connoisseur 
does regard a curio, when I was induced to make 
this exclamation. I was certainly under the impres¬ 
sion that, when I first took the pipe out of the box, 


120 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


two, if not three of the feelers had been twined about 
the bowl—twined tightly f so that you could not see 
daylight between them and it. Now they were al¬ 
most entirely detached, only the tips touching the 
meerschaum, and those particular feelers were gath¬ 
ered up as though the creature were in the act of tak¬ 
ing a spring. Of course I was under a misappre¬ 
hension: the feelers couldn’t have been twined; a 
moment before I should have been ready to bet a 
thousand to one that they were. Still, one does 
make mistakes, and very egregious mistakes, at 
times. At the same time, I confess that when I saw 
that dreadful-looking animal poised on the extreme 
edge of the bowl, for all the world as though it were 
just going to spring at me, I was a little startled. 
I remembered that when I was smoking the pipe 
I did think I saw the uplifted tentacle moving, as 
though it were reaching out to me. And I had a 
clear recollection that just as I had been sinking 
into that strange state of unconsciousness, I had been 
under the impression that the creature was writhing 
and twisting, as though it had suddenly become in¬ 
stinct with life. Under the circumstances, these re¬ 
flections were not pleasant. I wished Tress had not 
talked that nonsense about the thing being haunted. 
It was surely sufficient to know that it was drugged 
and poisonous, without anything else. 

I replaced it in the sandalwood box. I locked the 
box in a cabinet. Quite apart from the question as 
to whether that pipe was or was not haunted, I 
know it haunted me. It was with me in a figurative 


THE PIPE 


121 


—which was worse than actual—sense all the day. 
Still worse, it was with me all the night. It was 
with me in my dreams. Such dreams! Possibly I 
had not yet wholly recovered from the effects of 
that insidious drug, but, whether or no, it was very 
wrong of Tress to set my thoughts into such a 
channel. He knows that I am of a highly imagina¬ 
tive temperament, and that it is easier to get mor¬ 
bid thoughts into my mind than to get them out 
again. Before that night was through I wished 
very heartily that I had never seen the pipe! I 
woke from one nightmare to fall into another. One 
dreadful dream was with me all the time—of a 
hideous, green reptile which advanced toward me 
out of some awful darkness, slowly, inch by inch, 
until it clutched me round the neck, and, gluing its 
lips to mine, sucked the life’s blood out of my veins 
as it embraced me with a slimy kiss. Such dreams 
are not restful. I woke anything but refreshed when 
the morning came. And when I got up and dressed 
I felt that, on the whole, it would perhaps have been 
better if I never had gone to bed. My nerves were 
unstrung, and I had that generally tremulous feeling 
which is, I believe, an inseparable companion of the 
more advanced stages of dipsomania. I ate no 
breakfast. I am no breakfast eater as a rule, but 
that morning I ate absolutely nothing. 

“If this sort of thing is to continue, I will let 
Tress have his pipe again. He may have the laugh 
of me, but anything is better than this.” 

It was with almost funereal forebodings that I 


122 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


went to the cabinet in which I had placed the sandal¬ 
wood box. But when I opened it my feelings of 
gloom partially vanished. Of what phantasies had 
I been guilty! It must have been an entire delusion 
on my part to have supposed that those tentacula 
had ever been twined about the bowl. The creature 
was in exactly the same position in which I had left 
it the day before—as, of course, I knew it would be 
—poised, as if about to spring. I was telling my¬ 
self how foolish I had been to allow myself to dwell 
for a moment on Tress’s words, when Martin 
Brasher was shown in. 

Brasher is an old friend of mine. We have a com¬ 
mon ground—ghosts. Only we approach them 
from different points of view. He takes the scien¬ 
tific—psychological—inquiry side. He is always 
anxious to hear of a ghost, so that he may have an 
opportunity of “showing it up.” 

“I’ve something in your line here,” I observed, 
as he came in. 

“In my line? How so? Ym not pipe mad.” 

“No; but you’re ghost mad. And this is a 
haunted pipe.” 

“A haunted pipe! I think you’re rather more 
mad about ghosts, my dear Pugh, than I am.” 

Then I told him all about it. He was deeply in¬ 
terested, especially when I told him that the pipe was 
drugged. But when I repeated Tress’s words about 
its being haunted, and mentioned my own delusion 
about the creature moving, he took a more serious 
view of the case than I had expected he would do. 


THE PIPE 123 

“I propose that we act on Tress’s suggestion, and 
go and make inquiries of him.” 

“But you don’t really think that there is anything 
in it?” 

“On these subjects I never allow myself to think 
at all. There are Tress’s words, and there is your 
story. It is agreed on all hands that the pipe has 
peculiar properties. It seems to me that there is a 
sufficient case here to merit inquiry.” 

He persuaded me. I went with him. The pipe, 
in the sandalwood box, went too. Tress received 
us with a grin—a grin which was accentuated when 
I placed the sandalwood box on the table. 

“You understand,” he said, “that a gift is a gift. 
On no terms will I consent to receive that pipe back 
in my possession.” 

I was rather nettled by his tone. 

“You need be under no alarm. I have no inten¬ 
tion of suggesting anything of the kind.” 

“Our business here,” began Brasher—I must own 
that his manner is a little ponderous—“is of a scien¬ 
tific, I may say also, and at the same time, of a judi¬ 
cial nature. Our object is the Pursuit of Truth and 
the Advancement of Inquiry.” 

“Have you been trying another smoke?” inquired 
Tress, nodding his head toward me. 

Before I had time to answer, Brasher went dron¬ 
ing on: 

“Our friend here tells me that you say this pipe 
is haunted.” 

“I say it is haunted because it is haunted.” 


124 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


I looked at Tress. I half suspected that he was 
poking fun at us. But he appeared to be serious 
enough. 

“In these matters,” remarked Brasher, as though 
he were giving utterance to a new and important 
truth, “there is a scientific and nonscientific method 
of inquiry. The scientific method is to begin at the 
beginning. May I ask how this pipe came into your 
possession?” 

Tress paused before he answered. 

“You may ask.” He paused again. “Oh, you 
certainly may ask. But it doesn’t follow that I shall 
tell you.” 

“Surely your object, like ours, can be but the 
Spreading About of the Truth?” 

“I don’t see it at all. It is possible to imagine a 
case in which the spreading about of the truth might 
make me look a little awkward.” 

“Indeed!” Brasher pursed up his lips. “Your 
words would almost lead one to suppose that there 
was something about your method of acquiring the 
pipe which you have good and weighty reasons for 
concealing.” 

“I don’t know why I should conceal the thing 
from you. I don’t suppose either of you is any 
better than I am. I don’t mind telling you how I 
got the pipe. I stole it.” 

“Stole it!” 

Brasher seemed both amazed and shocked. But 
I, who had previous experience of Tress’s methods 
of adding to his collection, was not at all surprised. 


THE PIPE 


125 


Some of the pipes which he calls his, if only the 
whole truth about them were publicly known, would 
send him to jail. 

“That’s nothing!” he continued. “All collectors 
steal! The eighth commandment was not intended to 
apply to them. Why, Pugh there has ‘conveyed’ 
three-fourths of the pipes which he flatters himself 
are his.” 

I was so dumbfounded by the charge that it took 
my breath away. I sat in astounded silence. Tress 
went raving on: 

“I was so shy of this particular pipe when I had 
obtained it, that I put it away for quite three months. 
When I took it out to have a look at it something 
about the thing so tickled me that I resolved to smoke 
it. Owing to peculiar circumstances attending the 
manner in which the thing came into my possession, 
and on which I need not dwell—you don’t like to 
dwell on those sort of things, do you, Pugh?—I 
knew really nothing about the pipe. As was the 
case with Pugh, one peculiarity I learned from actual 
experience. It was also from actual experience that 
I learned that the thing was—well, I said haunted, 
but you may use any other word you like.” 

“Tell us, as briefly as possible, what it was you 
really did discover.” 

“Take the pipe out of the box!” Brasher took 
the pipe out of the box and held it in his hand. 
“You see that creature on it. Well, when I first had 
it, it was underneath the pipe.” 


126 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“How do you mean that it was underneath the 
pipe?” 

“It was bunched together underneath the stem, 
just at the end of the mouthpiece, in the same way 
in which a fly might be suspended from the ceiling. 
When I began to smoke the pipe I saw the creature 
move.” 

“But I thought that unconsciousness immediately 
followed.” 

“It did follow, but not before I saw that the thing 
was moving. It was because I thought that I had 
been, in a way, a victim of delirium that I tried 
the second smoke. Suspecting that the thing was 
drugged I swallowed what I believed would prove 
a powerful antidote. It enabled me to resist the 
influence of the narcotic much longer than before, 
and while I still retained my senses I saw the crea¬ 
ture crawl along under the stem and over the bowl. 
It was that sight, I believe, as much as anything else, 
which sent me silly. When I came to, I then and 
there decided to present the pipe to Pugh. There is 
one more thing I would remark. When the pipe 
left me the creature’s legs were twined about the 
bowl. Now they are withdrawn. Possibly you, 
Pugh, are able to cap my story with a little one which 
is all your own.” 

“I certainly did imagine that I saw the creature 
move. But I supposed that while I was under the 
influence of the drug imagination had played me a 
trick.” 

“Not a bit of it! Depend upon it, the beast is 


THE PIPE 


127 


bewitched. Even to my eye it looks as though it 
were, and to a trained eye like yours, Pugh! You’ve 
been looking for the devil a long time, and you’ve 
got him at last.” 

“I—I wish you wouldn’t make those remarks, 
Tress. They jar on me.” 

“I confess,” interpolated Brasher—I noticed that 
he had put the pipe down on the table as though he 
were tired of holding it—“that, to my thinking, such 
remarks are not appropriate. At the same time 
what you have told us is, I am bound to allow, a 
little curious. But of course what I require is ocular 
demonstration. I haven’t seen the movement my¬ 
self.” 

“No, but you very soon will do so, if you care to 
have a pull at the pipe on your own account. Do, 
Brasher, to oblige me! There’s a dear!” 

“It appears, then, that the movement is only ob¬ 
servable when the pipe is smoked. We have at 
east arrived at step No. i.” 

“Here’s a match, Brasher! Light up, and we 
shall have arrived at step No. 2 .” 

Tress lit a match and held it out to Brasher. 
Brasher retreated from its neighborhood. 

“Thank you, Mr. Tress, I am no smoker, as you 
are aware. And I have no desire to acquire the art 
of smoking by means of a poisoned pipe.” 

Tress laughed. He blew out the match and threw 
it into the grate. 

“Then I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll have up Bob.” 

“Bob—why Bob?” 


128 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“Bob”—whose real name was Robert Haines, 
though I should think he must have forgotten the 
fact, so seldom was he addressed by it—was Tress’s 
servant. He had been an old soldier, and had ac¬ 
companied his master when he left the service. He 
was as depraved a character as Tress himself. I am 
not sure even that he was not worse than his master. 
I shall never forget how he once behaved toward 
myself. He actually had the assurance to accuse me 
of attempting to steal the Wardour Street relic 
which Tress fondly deludes himself was once the 
property of Sir Walter Raleigh. The truth is that 
I had slipped it with my handkerchief into my pocket 
in a fit of absence of mind. A man who could accuse 
me of such a thing would be guilty of anything. I 
was therefore quite at one with Brasher when he 
asked what Bob could possibly be wanted for. Tress 
explained. 

“I’ll get him to smoke the pipe,” he said. 

Brasher and I exchanged glances, but we refrained 
from speech. 

“It won’t do him any harm,” said Tress. 

“What—not a poisoned pipe?” asked Brasher. 

“It’s not poisoned—it’s only drugged.” 

“Only drugged!” 

“Nothing hurts Bob. He is like an ostrich. He 
has digestive organs which are peculiarly his own. 
It will only serve him as it served me—and Pugh— 
it will knock him over. It is all done in the Pursuit 
of Truth and for the Advancement of Inquiry.” 

I could see that Brasher did not altogether like 


THE PIPE 


129 


the tone in which Tress repeated his words. As for 
me, it was not to be supposed that I should put my¬ 
self out in a matter which in no way concerned me. 
If Tress chose to poison the man, it was his affair, 
not mine. He went to the door and shouted: 

“Bob ! Come here, you scoundrel!” 

That is the way in which he speaks to him. No 
really decent servant would stand it. I shouldn’t 
care to address Nalder, my servant, in such a way. 
He would give me notice on the spot. Bob came in. 
He is a great hulking fellow who is always on the 
grin. Tress had a decanter of brandy in his hand. 
He filled a tumbler with the neat spirit. 

“Bob, what would you say to a glassful of brandy 
—the real thing—my boy?” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“And what would you say to a pull at a pipe when 
the brandy is drunk!” 

“A pipe?” The fellow is sharp enough when he 
likes. I saw him look at the pipe upon the table, and 
then at us, and then a gleam of intelligence came 
into his eyes. “I’d do it for a dollar, sir.” 

“A dollar, you thief?” 

“I meant ten shillings, sir.” 

“Ten shillings, you brazen vagabond?” 

“I should have said a pound.” 

“A pound! Was ever the like of that! Do I 
understand you to ask a pound for taking a pull at 
your master’s pipe?” 

“I’m thinking that I’ll have to make it two.” 


130 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“The deuce you are! Here, Pugh, lend me a 
pound.” 

“I’m afraid I’ve left my purse behind.” 

“Then lend me ten shillings—Ananias!” 

“I doubt if I have more than five.” 

“Then give me the five. And, Brasher, lend me 
the other fifteen.” 

Brasher lent him the fifteen. I doubt if we shall 
either of us ever see our money again. He handed 
the pound to Bob. 

“Here’s the brandy—drink it up!” Bob drank it 
without a word, draining the glass of every drop. 
“And here’s the pipe.” 

“Is it poisoned, sir?” 

“Poisoned, you villain! What do you mean?” 

“It isn’t the first time I’ve seen your tricks, sir— 
is it now? And you’re not the one to give a pound 
for nothing at all. If it kills me you’ll send my 
body to my mother—she’d like to know that I was 
dead.” 

“Send your body to your grandmother! You 
idiot, sit down and smoke!” 

Bob sat down. Tress had filled the pipe, and 
handed it, with a lighted match, to Bob. The fellow 
declined the match. He handled the pipe very gin¬ 
gerly, turning it over and over, eying it with all his 
eyes. 

“Thank you, sir—I’ll light up myself if it’s the 
same to you. I carry matches of my own. It’s a 
beautiful pipe, entirely. I never see the like of it 
for ugliness. And what’s the slimy-looking varmint 


THE PIPE 


131 


that looks as though it would like to have my life? 
Is it living, or is it dead?” 

“Come, we don’t want to sit here all day, my 
man!” 

“Well, sir, the look of this here pipe has quite 
upset my stomach. I’d like another drop of liquor, 
if it’s the same to you.” 

“Another drop! Why, you’ve had a tumblerful 
already! Here’s another tumblerful to put on top 
of that. You won’t want the pipe to kill you—you’ll 
be killed before you get to it.” 

“And isn’t it better to die a natural death?” 

Bob emptied the second tumbler of brandy as 
though it were water. I believe he would empty 
a hogshead without turning a hair! Then he gave 
another look at the pipe. Then, taking a match 
from his waistcoat pocket, he drew a long breath, 
as though he were resigning himself to fate. Strik¬ 
ing the match on the seat of his trousers, while, 
shaded by his hand, the flame was gathering 
strength, he looked at each of us in turn. When he 
looked at Tress I distinctly saw him wink his eye. 
What my feelings would have been if a servant of 
mine had winked his eye at me I am unable to im¬ 
agine! The match was applied to the tobacco, a 
puff of smoke came through his lips—the pipe was 
alight! 

During this process of lighting the pipe we had 
sat—I do not wish to use exaggerated language, but 
we had sat and watched that alcoholic scamp’s pro¬ 
ceedings as though we were witnessing an action 


132 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


which would leave its mark upon the age. When 
we saw the pipe was lighted we gave a simultaneous 
start. Brasher put his hands under his coat tails 
and gave a kind of hop. I raised myself a good six 
inches from my chair, and Tress rubbed his palms 
together with a chuckle. Bob alone was calm. 

“Now,” cried Tress, “you’ll see the devil mov¬ 
ing.” 

Bob took the pipe from between his lips. 

“See what?” he said. 

“Bob, you rascal, put that pipe back into your 
mouth, and smoke it for your life!” 

Bob was eyeing the pipe askance ; 

“I dare say, but what I want to know is whether 
this here varmint’s dead or whether he ain’t. I don’t 
want to have him flying at my nose—and he looks 
vicious enough for anything.” 

“Give me back that pound, you thief, and get out 
of my house, and bundle.” 

“I ain’t going to give you back no pound.” 

“Then smoke that pipe!” 

“I am smoking it, ain’t I?” 

With the utmost deliberation Bob returned the 
pipe to his mouth. He emitted another whiff or two 
of smoke. 

“Now—now!” cried Tress, all excitement, and 
wagging his hand in the air. 

We gathered round. As we did so Bob again 
withdrew the pipe. 

“What is the meaning of all this here ? I ain’t 
going to have you playing none of your larks on me. 


THE PIPE 


133 


I know there’s something up, but I ain’t going to 
throw my life away for twenty shillings—not quite 
I ain’t.” 

Tress, whose temper is not at any ..me one of 
the best, was seized with quite a spasm of rage. 

“As I live, my lad, if you try to cheat me by tak¬ 
ing that pipe from between your lips until I tell you, 
you leave this room that instant, never again to be 
a servant of mine.” 

I presume the fellow knew from long experience 
when his master meant what he said, and when he 
didn’t. Without an attempt at remonstrance he re¬ 
placed the pipe. He continued stolidly to puff away. 
Tress caught me by the arm. 

“What did I tell you? There—there! That 

tentacle is moving.” 

The uplifted tentacle was moving. It was doing 
what I had seen it do, as I supposed, in my distorted 
imagination—it was reaching forward. Undoubt¬ 
edly Bob saw what it was doing; but, whether in 
obedience to his master’s commands, or whether be¬ 
cause the drug was already beginning to take effect, 
he made no movement to withdraw the pipe. He 
watched the slowly advancing tentacle, coming closer 
and closer toward his nose, with an expression of 
such intense horror on his countenance that it be¬ 
came quite shocking. Farther and farther the crea¬ 
ture reached forward, until on a sudden, with a sort 
of jerk, the movement assumed a downward direc¬ 
tion, and the tentacle was slowly lowered until the 
tip rested on the stem of the pipe. For a moment 


134 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


the creature remained motionless. I was quieting 
my nerves with the reflection that this thing was but 
some trick of the carver’s art, and that what we had 
seen we had seen in a sort of nightmare, when the 
whole hideous reptile was seized with what seemed 
to be a fit of convulsive shuddering. It seemed to 
be in agony. It trembled so violently that I expected 
to see it loosen its hold of the stem and fall to the 
ground. I was sufficiently master of myself to steal 
a glance at Bob. We had had an inkling of what 
might happen. He was wholly unprepared. As he 
saw that dreadful, human-looking creature, coming 
to life, as it seemed, within an inch or two of his 
nose, his eyes dilated to twice their usual size. I 
hoped, for his sake, that unconsciousness would su¬ 
pervene, through the action of the drug, before 
through sheer fright his senses left him. Perhaps 
mechanically he puffed steadily on. 

The creature’s shuddering became more violent. 
It appeared to swell before our eyes. Then, just 
as suddenly as it began, the shuddering ceased. 
There was another instant of quiescence. Then the 
creature began to crawl along the stem of the pipe! 
It moved with marvelous caution, the merest frac¬ 
tion of an inch at a time. But still it moved! Our 
eyes were riveted on it with a fascination which was 
absolutely nauseous. I am unpleasantly affected 
even as I think of it now. My dreams of the night 
before had been nothing to this. 

Slowly, slowly, it went, nearer and nearer to the 
smoker’s nose. Its mode of progression was in the 


THE PIPE 


135 


highest degree unsightly. It glided, never, so far 
as I could see, removing its tentacles from the stem 
of the pipe. It slipped its hind-most feelers onward 
until they came up to those which were in advance. 
Then, in their turn, it advanced those which were in 
front. It seemed, too, to move with the utmost 
labor, shuddering as though it were in pain. 

We were all, for our parts, speechless. I was 
momentarily hoping that the drug would take effect 
on Bob. Either his constitution enabled him to offer 
a strong resistance to narcotics, or else the large 
quantity of neat spirit which he had drunk acted— 
as Tress had malevolently intended that it should— 
as an antidote. It seemed to me that he would never 
succumb. On went the creature—on, and on, in its 
infinitesimal progression. I was spellbound. I 
would have given the world to scream, to have been 
able to utter a sound. I could do nothing else but 
watch. 

The creature had reached the end of the stem. It 
had gained the amber mouthpiece. It was within 
an inch of the smoker’s nose. Still on it went. It 
seemed to move with greater freedom on the amber. 
It increased its rate of progress. It was actually 
touching the foremost feature on the smoker’s coun¬ 
tenance. I expected to see it grip the wretched 
Bob, when it began to oscillate from side to side. 
Its oscillations increased in violence. It fell to the 
floor. That same instant the narcotic prevailed. 
Bob slipped sideways from the chair, the pipe still 
held tightly between his rigid jaws. 


136 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


We were silent. There lay Bob. Close beside him 
lay the creature. A few more inches to the left, and 
he would have fallen on and squashed it flat. It had 
fallen on its back. Its feelers were extended upward. 
They were writhing and twisting and turning in the 
air. 

Tress was the first to speak. 

“I think a little brandy won’t be amiss.” Empty¬ 
ing the remainder of the brandy into the glass, he 
swallowed it at a draught. “Now for a closer ex¬ 
amination of our friend.” Taking a pair of tongs 
from the grate he nipped the creature between them. 
He deposited it upon the table. “I rather fancy that 
this is a case for dissection.” 

He took a penknife from his waistcoat pocket. 
Opening the large blade, he thrust its point into the 
object on the table. Little or no resistance seemed 
to be offered to the passage of the blade, but as it 
v/as inserted the tentacula simultaneously began to 
writhe and twist. Tress withdrew the knife. 

“I thought so!” He held the blade out for our in¬ 
spection. The point was covered with some viscid- 
looking matter. “That’s blood! The thing’s 
alive!” 

“Alive!” 

“Alive! That’s the secret of the whole perform¬ 
ance !” 

“But-” 

“But me no buts, my Pugh! The mystery’s ex¬ 
ploded ! One more ghost is lost to the world! The 
person from whom I obtained that pipe was an In- 



THE PIPE 


137 


dian juggler—up to many tricks of the trade. He, 
or some one for him, got hold of this sweet thing in 
reptiles—and a sweeter thing would, I imagine, 
be hard to find—and covered it with some prepara¬ 
tion of, possible, gum arabic. He allowed this to 
harden. Then he stuck the thing—still living, for 
that sort of gentry are hard to kill—to the pipe. 
The consequence was that when anyone lit up, the 
warmth was communicated to the adhesive agent— 
again some preparation of gum, no doubt—it moist¬ 
ened it, and the creature, with infinite difficulty, was 
able to move. But I am open to lay odds with any 
gentleman of sporting taste that this time the crea¬ 
ture’s traveling days are done. It has given me 
rather a larger taste of the horrors than is good for 
my digestion.” 

With the aid of the tongs he removed the creature 
from the table. He placed it on the hearth. Before 
Brasher or I had a notion of what it was he intended 
to do, he covered it with a heavy marble paper 
weight. Then he stood upon the weight, and be¬ 
tween the marble and heart he ground the creature 
flat. 

While the execution was still proceeding, Bob sat 
up upon the floor. 

“Hollo!” he asked, “what’s happened?” 

“We’ve emptied the bottle, Bob,” said Tress. 
“But there’s another where that came from. Per¬ 
haps you could drink another tumblerful, my boy?” 

Bob drank it! 


138 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES « 


FOOTNOTE 

“Those gentry are hard to kill.” Here is fact, not fantasy. 
Lizard yarns no less sensational than this Mystery Story can be 
found between the covers of solemn, zoological textbooks 

Reptiles, indeed, are far from finicky in the matters of air, 
space, and especially warmth. Frogs and other such sluggish- 
blooded creatures have lived after being frozen fast in ice. 
Their blood is little warmer than air or water, enjoying no 
extra casing of fur or feathers. 

Air and food seem held in light esteem by lizards. Their 
blood need not be highly oxygenated; it nourishes just as well 
when impure. In temperate climes lizards lie torpid and buried 
all winter; some species of the tropic deserts sleep peacefully 
all summer. Their anatomy includes no means for the con- 
tinous introduction and expulsion of air; reptilian lungs are 
little more than closed sacs, without cell structure. 

If any further zoological fact were needed to verify the 
denouement of “The Pipe,” it might be the general statement 
that lizards are abnormal brutes anyhow. Consider the 
chameleons of unsettled hue. And what is one to think of an 
animal which, when captured by the tail, is able to make its 
escape by willfully shuffling off that appendage?— Editor. 


THE UPPER BERTH 


By F. Marion Crawford 

I 

Somebody asked for the cigars. We had talked so 
long, and the conversation was beginning to languish, 
the tobacco smoke had got into the heavy curtains, 
the wine had got into those brains which were liable 
to become heavy, and it was already perfectly evi¬ 
dent, unless somebody did something to rouse our 
oppressed spirits, the meeting would soon come to its 
natural conclusion, and we, the guests, would speedily 
go home to bed, and most certainly to sleep. No one 
had said anything very remarkable, it may be no one 
had anything to say. Jones had given us every par¬ 
ticular of his last hunting adventure in Yorkshire. 
Mr. Tompkins, of Boston, had explained at elabo¬ 
rate length those working principles by the due and 
careful maintenance of which the Atchison, Topeka, 
and Sante Fe Railroad not only extended its terri¬ 
tory, increased its departmental influence, and trans- 

Reprinted by permission of the publishers (in England, T. Fisher 
Unwin, and in America, The Macmillan Company) from F. Marion 
Crawford’s “Wandering Ghosts,” copyright, 1911. 

139 


140 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


ported live stock without starving them to death be¬ 
fore the day of actual delivery, but also, had for 
years succeeded in deceiving those passengers who 
bought its tickets into the fallacious belief that the 
corporation aforesaid was really able to transport 
human life without destroying it. Signor Tombola 
had endeavored to persuade us, by arguments which 
we took no trouble to oppose, that the unity of his 
country in no way resembled the average modern 
torpedo, carefully planned, constructed with all the 
skill of the greatest European arsenals, but, when 
constructed, destined to be directed by feeble hands 
into a region where it must undoubtedly explode, 
unseen, unfeared, and unheard, into the illimitable 
wastes of political chaos. 

It is unnecessary to go into further details. The 
conversation had assumed proportions which would 
have bored Prometheus on his rock, which would 
have driven Tantalus to distraction, and which would 
have impelled Ixion to seek relaxation in the simple 
but instructive dialogues of Herr Ollendorf, rather 
than submit to the greater evil of listening to our 
talk. We had sat at a table for hours; we were 
bored, we were tired, and nobody showed signs of 
moving. 

Somebody called for cigars. We all instinctively 
looked toward the speaker. Brisbane was a man of 
five-and-thirty-years of age, and remarkable for 
those gifts which chiefly attract the attention of men. 
He was a strong man. The external proportions 
of his figure presented nothing extraordinary to the 


THE UPPER BERTH 


141 


common eye, though his size was above the average. 
He was a little over six feet in height, and moder¬ 
ately broad in the shoulder; he did not appear to be 
stout, but, on the other hand he was certainly not 
thin; his small head was supported by a strong and 
sinewy neck; his broad, muscular hands seemed to 
possess a peculiar skill in breaking walnuts without 
the assistance of the ordinary cracker, and, seeing 
him in profile, one could not help remarking the ex¬ 
traordinary breadth of his sleeves and the unusual 
thickness of his chest. He was one of those men who 
are commonly spoken of among men as deceptive; 
that is to say, that though he looked exceedingly 
strong, he was in reality very much stronger than he 
looked. Of his features I need say little. His head 
is small, his hair is thin, his eyes are blue, his nose 
is large, he has a small mustache and a square jaw. 
Everybody knows Brisbane, and when he asked for 
a cigar everybody looked at him. 

“It is a very singular thing,” said Brisbane. 

Everbody stopped talking. Brisbane’s voice was 
not loud, but possessed a peculiar quality of pene¬ 
trating general conversation and cutting it like a 
knife. Everybody listened. Brisbane perceiving that 
he had attracted their general attention, lighted his 
cigar with equal equanimity. 

“It is very singular,” he continued, “that thing 
about ghosts. People are always asking whether 
anybody has seen a ghost. I have.” 

“Bosh! What, you? You don’t mean to say so, 
Brisbane? Well, for a man of his intelligence!” 


142 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


A chorus of exclamations greeted Brisbane’s re¬ 
markable statement. Everybody called for cigars, 
and Stubbs, the butler, suddenly appeared from the 
depths of nowhere with a fresh bottle of dry cham¬ 
pagne. The situation was saved; Brisbane was going 
to tell a story. 

“I am an old sailor,” said Brisbane, “and as I 
have to cross the Atlantic pretty often, I have my 
favorites. Most men have their favorites. I have 
seen a man wait in a Broadway bar for three- 
quarters of an hour for a particular car which he 
liked. I believe the barkeeper made at least one- 
third of his living by that man’s preference. I have 
a habit of waiting for certain ships when I am 
obliged to cross that duckpond. It may be a preju¬ 
dice, but I was never cheated out of a good passage 
but once in my life. I remember it very well; it was 
a warm morning in June, and the custom house offi¬ 
cials, who were hanging about waiting for a steamer 
already on her way up from quarantine, presented 
a peculiarly hazy and thoughtful appearance. I had 
not much luggage—I never have. I mingled with 
the crowd of passengers, porters, and officious indi¬ 
viduals in blue coats and brass buttons, who seemed 
to spring up like mushrooms from the deck of a 
moored steamer to obtrude their unnecessary services 
upon the independent passengers. I have often no¬ 
ticed with a certain interest the spontaneous evolu¬ 
tion of these fellows. They are not there when you 
arrive; five minutes after the pilot has called ‘Go 
ahead!’ they, or at least their blue coats and brass 


THE' UPPER BERTH 


143 


buttons, have disappeared from deck and gangway 
as completely as though they had been consigned 
to that locker which tradition unanimously ascribes 
to Davy Jones. But, at the moment of starting, they 
are there, clean-shaved, blue-coated, and ravenous 
for fees. I hastened on board. The ‘Kamtschatka’ 
was one of my favorite ships. I say was, because 
she emphatically no longer is. I cannot conceive of 
any inducement which could entice me to make an¬ 
other voyage in her. Yes, I know what you are 
going to say. She is uncommonly clean in the run 
aft, she has enough bluffing off in the bows to keep 
her dry, and the lower berths are the most of them 
double. She has a lot of advantages, but I won’t 
cross in her again. Excuse the digression. I got on 
board. I hailed the steward, whose red nose and 
redder whiskers are equally familiar to me. 

“ ‘One hundred and five, lower berth,’ said I, in 
the business-like tone peculiar to men who think no 
more of crossing the Atlantic than taking a whiskey 
cocktail at downtown Delmonico’s. 

“The steward took my portmanteau, great coat, 
and rug. I shall never forget the expression on his 
face. Not that he turned pale. It is maintained by 
the most eminent divines that even miracles cannot 
change the course of nature. I have no hesitation in 
saying that he did not turn pale; but, from his ex¬ 
pression, I judged that he was either about to shed 
tears, to sneeze, or to drop my portmanteau. As 
the latter contained two bottles of particularly fine 
old sherry, presented to me for my voyage by my 


144 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


old friend Snigginson van Pickyns, I felt extremely 
nervous. But the steward did none of these things. 

“ ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said he in a low voice, 
and led the way. 

“I supposed my Hermes, as he led me to the 
lower regions, had had a little grog, but I said noth¬ 
ing, and followed him. One hundred and five was 
on the port side, well aft. There was nothing re¬ 
markable about the stateroom. The lower berth, 
like most of those upon the ‘Kamtschatka,’ was 
double. There was plenty of room ; there was the 
usual washing apparatus, calculated to convey an 
idea of luxury to the mind of a North American 
Indian; there were the usual inefficient racks of 
brown wood, in which it is more easy to hang a 
large-sized umbrella than the common toothbrush 
of commerce. Upon the uninviting mattresses were 
carefully folded together those blankets which a 
great modern humorist has aptly compared to cold 
buckwheat cakes. The question of towels was left 
entirely to the imagination. The glass decanters 
were filled with a transparent liquid faintly tinged 
with brown, but from which an odor less faint, but 
not more pleasing, ascended to the nostrils, like a 
far-off seasick reminiscence of oily machinery. Sad- 
colored curtains half closed the upper berth. The 
hazy June daylight shed a faint illumination upon 
the desolate little scene. Ugh! How I hate that 
stateroom! 

“The steward deposited my traps and looked at 
me as though he wanted to get away—probably in 


THE UPPER BERTH 


145 


search of more passengers and more fees. It is al¬ 
ways a good plan to start in favor with those func¬ 
tionaries, and I accordingly gave him certain coins 
there and then. 

“ ‘I’ll try and make yer comfortable all I can,’ he 
remarked, as he put the coins in his pocket. Never¬ 
theless, there was a doubtful intonation in his voice 
which surprised me. Possibly his scale of fees had 
gone up, and he was not satisfied; but on the whole 
I was inclined to think that, as he himself would 
have expressed it, he was ‘the better for a glass.’ I 
was wrong, however, and did the man injustice. 

II 

“Nothing especially noteworthy of mention oc¬ 
curred during the day. We left the pier punctually, 
and it was very pleasant to be fairly under way, for 
the weather was warm and sultry, and the motion 
of the steamer produced a refreshing breeze. 

“Everybody knows what the first day at sea is 
like. People pace the decks and stare at each other, 
and occasionally meet acquaintances whom they did 
not know to be on board. There is the usual un¬ 
certainty as to whether the food will be good, bad, 
or indifferent, until the first two meals have put the 
matter byond a doubt, there is the usual uncertainty 
about the weather, until the ship is fairly off Fire 
Island. The tables are crowded at first, and then 
suddenly thinned. Pale-faced people spring from 
their seats and precipitate themselves toward the 


146 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


door, and each old sailor breathes more freely as 
his seasick neighbor rushes from his side, leaving 
him plenty of elbow room and an unlimited com¬ 
mand over the mustard. 

“One passage across the Atlantic is very much like 
another, and we who cross very often do not make 
the voyage for the sake of novelty. Whales and 
icebergs are indeed always objects of interest, but, 
after all, one whale is very much like another whale, 
and one rarely sees an iceberg at close quarters. To 
the majority of us, the most delightful moment of 
the day on board an ocean steamer is when we have 
taken our last turn on deck, have smoked our last 
cigar, and having succeeded in tiring ourselves, feel 
at liberty to turn in with a clear conscience. On 
that first night of the voyage I felt particularly lazy, 
and went to bed in one hundred and five rather 
earlier than I usually do. As I turned in, I was 
amazed to see that I was to have a companion. A 
portmanteau, very like my own, lay in the opposite 
corner, and* in* the upper berth had been deposited 
a neatly folded rug with a stick and umbrella. I 
had hoped to be alone, and I was disappointed; but 
I wondered who my roommate was to be, and I 
determined to have a look at him. 

“Before I had been long in bed he entered. He 
was, as far as I could see, a very tall man, very thin, 
very pale, with sandy hair and whiskers, and color¬ 
less gray eyes. He had about him, I thought, an 
air of rather dubious fashion; the sort of man you 
might see in Wall Street, without being able pre- 


THB UPPER BERTH 


147 


cisely to say what he was doing there—the sort of 
man who frequents the Cafe Anglais, who always 
seems to be alone, and who drinks champagne; you 
might meet him on a race-course, but he would never 
appear to be doing anything there either. A little 
overdressed—a little odd. There are three or four 
of his kind on every ocean steamer. I made up my 
mind that I did not care to make his acqaintance, 
and I went to sleep saying to myself that I would 
study his habits in order to avoid him. If he rose 
early, I would rise late; if he went to bed late, I 
would go to bed early. I did not care to know him. 
If you once know people of that kind they are al¬ 
ways turning up. Poor fellow! I need not have 
taken the trouble to come to so many decisions about 
him, for I never saw him again after that first night 
in one hundred and five. 

“I was sleeping soundly when I was suddenly 
waked by a loud noise. To judge from the sound, 
my roommate must have sprung with a single leap 
from the upper berth to the floor. I heard him 
fumbling with the latch and bolt of the door, which 
opened almost immediately, and then I heard his 
footsteps as he ran at full speed down the passage, 
leaving the door open behind him. The ship was 
rolling a little, and I expected to hear him stumble 
or fall, but he ran as though he were running for 
his life. The door swung on its hinges with the 
motion of the vessel, and the sound annoyed me. I 
got up and shut it, and groped my way back to my 


148 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


berth in the darkness. I went to sleep again; but 
I have no idea how long I slept. 

“When I awoke it was still quite dark, but I 
felt a disagreeable sensation of cold, and it seemed 
to me that the air was damp. You know the pe¬ 
culiar smell of a cabin which has been wet with sea 
water. I covered myself up as well as I could and 
dozed off again, framing compliments to be made 
the next day, and selecting the most powerful epi¬ 
thets in language. I could hear my roommate turn 
over in the upper berth. He had probably returned 
while I was asleep. Once I thought I heard him 
groan, and I argued that he was seasick. That is 
particularly unpleasant when one is below. Never¬ 
theless I dozed off and slept till early daylight. 

“The ship was rolling heavily, much more than 
on the previous evening, and the gray light which 
came in through the porthole changed in tint with 
every movement according as the angle of the ves¬ 
sel’s side turned the glasses seaward or skyward. It 
was very cold—unaccountably so for the month of 
June. I turned my head and looked at the porthole, 
and saw to my surprise that it was wide open and 
hooked back. I believe I swore audibly. Then I 
got up and shut it. As I turned back I glanced at 
the upper berth. The curtains were drawn close to¬ 
gether; my companion had probably felt as cold as 
I. It struck me that I had slept enough. The state¬ 
room was uncomfortable, though, strange to say, 
I could not smell the dampness which had annoyed 
me in the night. My roommate was still asleep— 


THE UPPER BERTH 


149 


excellent opportunity for avoiding him, so I dressed 
at once and went on deck. The day was warm and 
cloudy, with an oily smell on the water. It was seven 
o’clock as I came out—much later than I had im¬ 
agined. I came across the doctor, who was taking 
his first sniff of the morning air. He was a young 
man from the West of Ireland—a tremendous fel¬ 
low, with black hair and blue eyes, already inclined 
to be stout; he had a happy-go-lucky, healthy look 
about him which was rather attractive. 

“ ‘Fine mornin’,’ I remarked by way of introduc¬ 
tion. 

“ ‘Well,’ said he, eyeing me with an air of ready 
interest, ‘it’s a fine morning and it’s not a fine morn¬ 
ing. I don’t think it’s much of a morning.’ 

“ ‘Well, no—it is not so very fine,’ said I. 

“ ‘It’s just what I call fuggly weather,’ replied the 
doctor. 

“ ‘It was very cold last night, I thought,’ I re¬ 
marked. ‘However, when I looked about, I found 
that the porthole was wide open. I had not noticed 
it when I went to bed. And the stateroom was 
damp, too.’ 

“ ‘Damp!’ said he. ‘Whereabouts are you?’ 

“ ‘One hundred and five—’ 

“To my surprise the doctor started visibly, and 
stared at me. 

“ ‘What is the matter?’ I asked. 

“‘Oh—nothing,’ he answered; ‘only everybody 
has complained of that stateroom for the last three 
trips.’ 


150 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


44 ‘I shall complain, too,’ I said. ‘It has certainly 
not been properly aired. It is a shame!’ 

44 ‘I don’t believe it can be helped,’ answered the 
doctor. ‘I believe there is something—well, it is not 
my business to frighten passengers.’ 

44 ‘You need not be afraid of frightening me,’ I 
replied. ‘I can stand any amount of damp. If I 
should get a bad cold I will come to you.’ 

“I offered the doctor a cigar, which he took and 
examined very critically. 

“ ‘It is not so much the damp,’ he remarked. 
‘However, I dare say you will get on very well. 
Have you a roommate?’ 

44 ‘Yes; a deuce of a fellow, who bolts out in the 
middle of the night and leaves the door open.’ 

“Again the doctor glanced curiously at me. Then 
he lighted the cigar and looked grave. 

44 ‘Did he come back?’ he asked presently. 

“ ‘Yes. I was asleep, but I waked up and heard 
him moving. Then I felt cold and went to sleep 
again. This morning I found the porthole open.’ 

“ ‘Look here,’ said the doctor, quietly, ‘I don’t 
care much for this ship. I don’t care a rap for her 1 
reputation. I tell you what I will do. I have a 
good-sized place up here. I will share it with you, 
though I don’t know you from Adam.’ 

“I was very much surprised at the proposition. I 
could not imagine w T hy he should take such a sud¬ 
den interest in my welfare. However, his manner 
as he spoke of the ship was peculiar. 

“ ‘You are very good, Doctor,’ I said. ‘But really, 


THE UPPER BERTH 


151 


I believe even now the cabin could be aired, or 
cleaned out, or something. Why do you not care 
for the ship?’ 

“ ‘We are not superstitious in our profession, sir,’ 
replied the doctor. ‘But the sea makes people so. 
I don’t want to prejudice you, and I don’t want to 
frighten you, but if you will take my advice you will 
move in here. I would as soon see you overboard,’ 
he added, ‘as know that you or any other man was 
to sleep in one hundred and five.’ 

“ ‘Good gracious! Why?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Just because on the last three trips the people 
who have slept there actually have gone overboard,’ 
he answered gravely. 

“The intelligence was startling and exceedingly 
unpleasant, I confess. I looked hard at the doctor 
to see whether he was making game of me, but he 
looked perfectly serious. I thanked him warmly for 
his offer, but told him I intended to be the exception 
to the rule by which everyone who slept in that par¬ 
ticular, stateroom went overboard. He did not say 
much, but looked as grave as ever, and hinted that 
before we got across, I should probably reconsider 
his proposal. In the course of time we went to 
breakfast, at which only an inconsiderable number 
of passengers assembled. I noticed that one or two 
of the officers who breakfasted with us looked 
grave. After breakfast I went into my stateroom in 
order to get a book. The curtains of the upper 
berth were still closely drawn. Not a word was to 
be heard. My roommate was probably still asleep. 


152 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“As I came out I met the steward whose business 
it was to look after me. He whispered that the 
captain wanted to see me, and then scuttled away 
down the passage as if very anxious to avoid any 
questions. I went toward the captain’s cabin, and 
found him waiting for me. 

“ ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I want to ask a favor of you.’ 

“I answered that I would do anything to oblige 
him. 

“ ‘Your roommate has disappeared,’ he said. 
‘He is known to have turned in early last night. Did 
you notice anything extraordinary in his manner?’ 

“The question coming, as it did, in exact confirma¬ 
tion of the fears the doctor had expressed half an 
hour earlier, staggered me. 

“ ‘You don’t mean to say that he has gone over¬ 
board?’ I asked. 

“ ‘I fear he has,’ answered the captain. 

“ ‘This is the most extraordinary thing—’ I began. 

“ ‘Why?’ he asked. 

“ ‘He is the fourth, then?’ I explained. In an¬ 
swer to another question from the captain, I ex¬ 
plained, without mentioning the doctor, that I had 
heard the story concerning one hundred and five. 
He seemed very much annoyed at hearing that I 
knew of it. I told him what had occurred in the 
night. 

“ ‘What you say,’ he replied, ‘coincides almost ex¬ 
actly with what was told me by the roommates of 
two of the other three. They bolt out of bed and 
run down the passage. Two of them were seen to 


THE UPPER BERTH 


153 


go overboard by the watch, we stopped, and lowered 
boats, but they were not found. Nobody, however, 
saw or heard the man who was lost last night—if 
he is really lost. The steward, who is a superstitious 
fellow, perhaps, and expected something to go 
wrong, went to look for him this morning, and found 
his berth empty, but his clothes lying about, just as 
he had left them. The steward was the only man 
on board who knew him by sight, and he has been 
searching everywhere for him. He has disap¬ 
peared! Now, sir, I want to beg you not to men¬ 
tion the circumstance to any of the passengers; I 
don’t want the ship to get a bad name, and nothing 
hangs about an ocean-goer like stories of suicides. 
You shall have your choice of any one of the officers’ 
cabins you like, including my own, for the rest of 
the passage. Is that a fair bargain?’ 

“ ‘Very,’ I said; ‘and I am much obliged to you. 
But since I am alone, and have the stateroom to 
myself, I would rather not move. If the steward 
will take out that unfortunate man’s things, I would 
as lief stay where I am. I will not say anything 
about the matter, and I think I can promise you that 
I will not follow my roommate.’ 

“The captain tried to dissuade me from my inten¬ 
tion, but I preferred having a stateroom alone to 
being the chum of any officer on board. I do not 
know whether I acted foolishly, but if I had taken 
his advice I should have had nothing more to tell. 
There would have remained the disagreeable coin¬ 
cidence of several suicides occurring among men 


154 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


who had slept in the same cabin, but that would 
have been all. 

“That was not the end of the matter, however, 
by any means. I obstinately made up my mind that 
I would not be disturbed by such tales, and I even 
went so far as to argue the question with the captain. 
There was something wrong about the stateroom, 
I said. It was rather damp. The porthole had 
been left open last night. My roommate might have 
been ill when he came on board, and he might have 
become delirious after he went to bed. He might 
even now be hiding somewhere on board, and might 
be found later. The place ought to be aired and 
the fastening of the port looked to. If the captain 
would give me leave, I would see that what I thought 
necessary was done immediately. 

“ ‘Of course you have a right to stay where you 
are if you please,’ he replied, rather petulantly; ‘but 
I wish you would turn out and let me lock the place 
up, and be done with it.’ 

“I did not see it in the same light, and left the 
captain, after promising to be silent concerning the 
disappearance of my companion. The latter had 
had no acquaintances on board, and was not missed 
in the course of the day. Toward evening I met the 
doctor again, and he asked me whether I had 
changed my mind. I told him I had not. 

“ ‘Then you will before long,’ he said, very 
gravely. 


THE UPPER BERTH 


155 


III 

“We played whist in the evening, and I went to 
bed late. I will confess now that I felt a disagree¬ 
able sensation when I entered my stateroom. I 
could not help thinking of the tall man I had seen 
on the previous night, who was now dead, drowned, 
tossing about in the long swell, two or three hundred 
miles astern. His face rose very distinctly before 
me as I undressed, and I even went so far as to 
draw back the curtains of the upper berth, as though 
to persuade myself that he was actually gone. I also 
bolted the door of the stateroom. Suddenly I be¬ 
came aware that the porthole was open and fastened 
back. This was more than I could stand. I hastily 
threw on my dressing-gown, and went in search of 
Robert, the steward of my passage. I was very 
angry, I remember, and when I found him I dragged 
him roughly to the door of one hundred and five, 
and pushed him toward the open porthole. 

“ ‘What the deuce do you mean, you scoundrel, 
by leaving that port open every night? Don’t you 
know it is against the regulations? Don’t you know 
that if the ship heeled and the water began to come 
in, ten men could not shut it? I will report you to 
the captain, you blackguard, for endangering the 
ship!’ 

“I was exceedingly wroth. The man trembled 
and turned pale, and then began to shut the round 
glass plate with the heavy brass fittings. 

“ ‘Why don’t you answer me?’ I said roughly. 


156 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“ ‘If you please, sir,’ faltered Robert, ‘there’s no¬ 
body on board as can keep this ’ere port shut at 
night. You can try it yourself, sir. I ain’t a-going 
to stop hany longer on board o’ this vessel, sir; I 
ain’t, indeed. But if I was you, sir, I’d just clear 
out and go and sleep with the surgeon, or some¬ 
thing, I would. Look ’ere, sir, is that fastened what 
you may call securely, or not, sir? Try it, sir, see 
if it will move a hinch.’ 

“I tried the port, and found it perfectly tight. 

“ ‘Well, sir,’ continued Robert, triumphantly; ‘I 
wager my reputation as an A i steward, that in arf 
an hour it will be open again; fastened back, too, 
sir, that’s the horful thing—fastened back!’ 

“I examined the great screw and the looped nut 
that ran on it. 

“ ‘If I find it open in the night, Robert, I will give 
you a sovereign. It is not possible. You may go.’ 

“Soverin, did you say, sir? Very good, sir. 
Thank ye, sir. Good-night, sir. Pleasant reepose, 
sir, and all manner of hinchantin’ dreams, sir.’ 

“Robert scuttled away, delighted at being re¬ 
leased. Of course, I thought he was trying to account 
for his negligence by a silly story, intended to 
frighten me, and I disbelieved him. The conse¬ 
quence was that he got his sovereign, and I spent 
a very peculiarly unpleasant night. 

“I went to bed, and five minutes after I had rolled 
myself up in my blankets the inexorable Robert ex¬ 
tinguished the light that burned steadily behind the 
ground-glass pane near the door. I lay quite still 


THE UPPER BERTH 


157 


in the dark trying to go to sleep, but I soon found 
that impossible. It had been some satisfaction to 
be angry with the steward, and the diversion had-* 
vanished that unpleasant sensation I had at first ex¬ 
perienced when I thought of the drowned man who 
had been my chum; but I was no longer sleepy, and 
I lay awake for some time, occasionally glancing at 
the porthole, which I could just see from where I 
lay, and which, in the darkness, looked like a faintly 
luminous soup-plate suspended in blackness. I be¬ 
lieve I must have lain there for an hour, and, as I 
remember, I was just dozing into sleep, when I was 
roused by a draught of cold air, and by distinctly 
feeling the spray of the sea blown upon my face. I 
started to my feet, and not having allowed in the 
dark for the motion of the ship, I was instantly 
thrown violently across the stateroom upon the couch 
which was placed beneath the porthole. I recov¬ 
ered myself immediately, however, and climbed upon 
my knees. The porthole was again wide open and 
fastened back! 

“Now these things are facts. I was wide awake 
when I got up, and I should certainly have been 
waked by the fall had I been dozing. Moreover, I 
bruised my elbows and knees badly, and the bruises 
were there on the following morning to testify to 
the fact, if I myself had doubted it. The porthole 
was wide open and fastened back—a thing so un¬ 
accountable, that I remember very well feeling as¬ 
tonishment rather than fear when I discovered it. 
I at once closed the plate again, and screwed down 


158 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


the loop nut with all my strength. It was very dark 
in the stateroom. I reflected that the port had cer¬ 
tainly been opened within an hour after Robert had 
at first shut it in my presence, and I determined to 
watch it and see whether it would open again. 
Those brass fittings are very heavy and by no means 
easy to move; I could not believe that the clamp had 
been turned by the shaking of the screw. I stood 
peering out through the thick glass at the alternate 
white and gray streaks of the sea that foamed be¬ 
neath the ship’s side. I must have remained there 
a quarter of an hour. 

“Suddenly, as I stood, I distinctly heard some¬ 
thing moving behind me in one of the berths, and 
a moment afterward, just as I turned instinctively 
to look—though I could, of course, see nothing in 
the darkness—I heard a very faint groan. I sprang 
across the stateroom, and tore the curtains of the 
upper berth aside, thrusting in my hands to discover 
if there were any one there. There was some one. 

“I remember that the sensation as I put my hands 
forward was as though I were plunging them into 
the air of a damp cellar, and from behind the cur¬ 
tain came a gust of wind that smelled horribly of 
stagnant seawater. I laid hold of something that 
had the shape of a man’s arm, but was smooth, and 
wet, and icy cold. But suddenly, as I pulled, the 
creature sprang violently forward against me, a 
clammy, oozy mass, as it seemed to me, heavy and 
wet, yet endowed with a sort of supernatural 
strength. I reeled across the stateroom, and in an 


the upper berth 


159 


instant the door opened and the thing rushed out. 
I had not had time to be frightened, and quickly 
recovering myself, I sprang through the door and 
gave chase at the top of my speed, but I was too 
late. Ten yards before me I could see—I am sure 
I saw it—a dark shadow moving in the dimly lighted 
passage, quickly as the shadow of a fast horse 
thrown before a dog-cart by the lamp on a dark 
night. But in a moment it had disappeared, and I 
found myself holding on to the polished rail that 
ran along the bulkhead where the passage turned 
toward the companion. My hair stood on end, and 
the cold perspiration rolled down my face. I am 
not ashamed of it in the least: I was very badly 
frightened. 

“Still I doubted my senses, and pulled myself to¬ 
gether. It was absurd, I thought. The Welsh rare¬ 
bit I had eaten had disagreed with me. I had been 
in a nightmare. I made my way back to my state¬ 
room, and entered it with an effort. The whole 
place smelled of stagnant seawater, as it had when 
I had waked on the previous evening. It required 
my utmost strength to go in and grope among my 
things for a box of wax lights. As I lighted a rail¬ 
way reading-lantern which I always carry in case I 
want to read after the lamps are out, I perceived 
that the porthole was again open, and a sort of 
creeping horror began to take possession of me 
which I never felt before, nor wish to feel again. 
But I got a light and proceeded to examine the upper 
berth, expecting to find it drenched with seawater. 


160 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


But I was disappointed. The bed had been slept 
in, and the smell of the sea was strong, but the bed¬ 
ding was as dry as a bone. I fancied that Robert 
had not had the courage to make the bed after the 
accident of the previous night—it had all been a 
hideous dream. I drew the curtains back as far as 
I could, and examined the place very carefully. It 
was perfectly dry. But the porthole was open again. 
With a sort of dull bewilderment of horror, I closed 
it and screwed it down, and thrusting my heavy stick 
through the brass loop, wrenched it with all my 
might, till the thick metal began to bend with the 
pressure. Then I hooked my reading-lantern into 
the red velvet at the head of the couch, and sat down 
to recover my senses if I could. I sat there all night, 
unable to think of rest—hardly able to think at all. 
But the porthole remained closed, and I did not be¬ 
lieve it would now open again without the applica¬ 
tion of a considerable force. 

“The morning dawned at last, and I dressed my¬ 
self slowly, thinking over all that had happened in 
the night. It was a beautiful day and I went on 
deck, glad to get out in the early pure sunshine, and 
to smell the breeze from the blue water, so different 
from the noisome, stagnant odor from my state¬ 
room. Instinctively I turned aft, toward the sur¬ 
geon’s cabin. There he stood with a pipe in his 
mouth, taking his morning airing precisely as on the 
preceding day. 

“ ‘Good-morning,’ said he quietly, but looking at 
me with evident curiosity. 


THE UPPER BERTH 161 

“ ‘Doctor, you were quite right,’ said I. ‘There 
is something wrong about that place.’ 

“ ‘I thought you would change your mind,’ he 
answered, rather triumphantly. ‘You have had a 
bad night, eh? Shall I make you a pick-me-up? I 
have a capital recipe.’ 

“ ‘No, thanks,’ I cried. ‘But I would like to tell 
you what happened.’ 

“I then tried to explain as clearly as possible pre¬ 
cisely what had occurred, not omitting to state that 
I had been scared as I had never been scared in my 
whole life before. I dwelt particularly on the phe¬ 
nomenon of the porthole, which was a fact to which 
I could testify, even if the rest had been an illusion. 
I had closed it twice in the night, and the second 
time I had actually bent the brass in wrenching it 
with my stick. I believe I insisted a good deal on 
this point. 

“ ‘You seem to think I am likely to doubt the 
story,’ said the doctor, smiling at the detailed ac¬ 
count of the state of the porthole. ‘I do not doubt 
it in the least. I renew my invitation to you. Bring 
your traps here, and take half my cabin.’ 

“ ‘Come and take mine for half of one night,’ I 
said. ‘Help me to get at the bottom of this thing.’ 

“ ‘You will get at the bottom of something else 
if you try,’ answered the doctor. 

“‘What?’ I asked. 

“ ‘The bottom of the sea. I am going to leave 
the ship. It is not canny.’ 

“ ‘Then you will not help me to find out—’ 


162 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“ ‘Not I,’ said the doctor quickly. ‘It is my busi¬ 
ness to keep my wits about me—not to go fiddling 
about with ghosts and things.’ 

“ ‘Do you really believe it is a ghost?’ I inquired, 
rather contemptuously. But as I spoke, I remem¬ 
bered very well the horrible sensation of the super¬ 
natural which had got possession of me during the 
night. The doctor turned sharply on me: 

“ ‘Have you any reasonable explanation of these 
things to offer?’ he asked. ‘No, you have not. Well, 
you say you will find an explanation. I say that you 
won’t, sir, simply because there is not any.’ 

“ ‘But, my dear sir,’ I retorted, ‘do you, a man of 
science, mean to tell me that such things can not be 
explained?’ 

“ ‘I do,’ he anwered, stoutly. ‘And if they could, 
I would not be concerned in the explanation.’ 

“I did not care to spend another night alone in 
the stateroom, and yet I was obstinately determined 
to get at the root of the disturbances. I do not be¬ 
lieve there are many men who would have slept 
there alone, after passing two such nights. But I 
made up my mind to try it, if I could not get any 
one to share a watch with me. The doctor was evi¬ 
dently not inclined for such an experiment. He said 
he was a surgeon, and that in case any accident oc¬ 
curred on board, he must alway be in readiness. He 
could not afford to have his nerve unsettled. Per¬ 
haps he was quite right, but I am inclined to think 
that this precaution was prompted by his inclination. 
On inquiry, he informed me that there was no one 


THE UPPER BERTH 


163 


on board who would be likely to join me in my in¬ 
vestigations, and after a little more conversation I 
left him. A little later I met the captain, and told 
him my story. I said that if no one would spend the 
night with me, I would ask leave to have the light 
burning all night, and would try it alone. 

“ ‘Look here,’ said he, ‘I will tell you what I will 
do. I will share your watch myself, and we will see 
what happens. It is my belief that we can find out 
between us. There may be some fellow skulking 
on board who steals a passage by frightening the 
passengers. It is just possible that there may be 
something queer in the carpentering of that berth.’ 

“I suggested taking the ship’s carpenter below 
and examining the place; but I was overjoyed at the 
captain’s offer to spend the night with me. He ac¬ 
cordingly sent for the workman and ordered him to 
do anything I required. We went below at once. 
I had all the bedding cleared out of the upper berth, 
and we examined the place thoroughly to see if there 
was a board loose anywhere, or a panel which could 
be opened or pushed aside. We tried the planks 
everywhere, tapped the flooring, unscrewed the fit¬ 
tings of the lower berth and took it to pieces—in 
short, there was not a square inch of the stateroom 
which was not searched and tested. Everything was 
in perfect order, and we put everything back in its 
place. As we were finishing our work, Robert came 
to the door, and looked in. 

“ ‘Well, sir—find anything, sir?’ he asked with a 
ghastly grin. 


164 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“ ‘You were right about the porthole, Robert,’ 
I said, and I gave him the promised sovereign. The 
carpenter did his work silently and skilfully, follow¬ 
ing my directions. When he had done he spoke. 

“ ‘I’m a plain man, sir,’ he said. ‘But it’s my belief 
you had better just turn out your things and let me 
run half a dozen four-inch screws through the door 
of this cabin. There’s no good never came o’ this 
cabin yet, sir, and that’s all about it. There’s been 
four lives lost out o’ here to my own remembrance, 
and that in four trips. Better give it up, sir—better 
give it up!’ 

“ ‘I will try it for one night more,’ I said. 

“‘Better give it up, sir—better give it up! It’s 
a precious bad job,’ repeated the workman, putting 
his tools in his bag and leaving the cabin. 

“But my spirits had risen considerably at the pros¬ 
pect of having the captain’s company, and I made 
up my mind not to be prevented from going to the 
end of the strange business. I abstained from Welsh 
rarebits and grog that evening, and did not even 
join in the customary game of whist. I wanted to 
be quite sure of my nerves, and my vanity made me 
anxious to make a good figure in the captain’s eyes. 

IV 

“The captain was one of those splendidly tough 
and cheerful specimens of seafaring humanity, whose 
combined courage, hardihood, and calmness in diffi¬ 
culty leads them naturally into high positions of 


THE UPPER BERTH 


165 


trust. He was not the man to be led away by an 
idle tale, and the mere fact that he was willing to 
join me in the investigation was proof that he 
thought there was something seriously wrong, which 
could not be accounted for on ordinary theories, nor 
laughed down as a common superstition. To some 
extent, too, his reputation was at stake, as well as 
the reputation of the ship. It is no light thing to 
lose passengers overboard, and he knew it. 

“About ten o’clock that evening, as I was smoking 
a last cigar, he came up to me and drew me aside 
from the beat of the other passengers who were 
patrolling the deck in the warm darkness. 

“ ‘This is a serious matter, Mr. Brisbane,’ he said. 
‘We must make up our minds either way—to be dis¬ 
appointed or to have a pretty rough time of it. You 
see, I cannot afford to laugh at the affair, and I will 
ask you to sign your name to a statement of what¬ 
ever occurs. If nothing happens to-night, we will 
try it again to-morrow and next day. Are you 
ready?’ 

“So we went below and entered the stateroom. 
As we went in I could see Robert, the steward, who 
stood a little further down the passage, watching 
us, with his usual grin, as though certain that some¬ 
thing dreadful was about to happen. The captain 
closed the door behind us and bolted it. 

“ ‘Suppose we put your portmanteau before the 
door,’ he suggested. ‘One of us can sit on it. Noth¬ 
ing can get out then. Is the port screwed down?’ 

“I found it as I had left it in the morning. In- 


166 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


deed, without using a lever, as I had done, no one 
could have opened it. I drew back the curtains of 
the upper berth so that I could see well into it. By 
the captain’s advice, I lighted my reading-lantern, 
and placed it so that it shone upon the white sheets 
above. He insisted upon sitting on the portmanteau, 
declaring that he wished to be able to swear that 
he had sat before the door. 

“Then he requested me to search the stateroom 
thoroughly, an operation very soon accomplished, 
as it consisted merely in looking beneath the lower 
berth and under the couch below the porthole. The 
spaces were quite empty. 

“ ‘It is impossible for any human being to get in,’ 
I said, ‘or for any human being to open the port.’ 

“ ‘Very good,’ said the captain, calmly. ‘If we 
see anything now, it must be either imagination or 
something supernatural.’ 

“I sat down on the edge of the lower berth. 

“ ‘The first time it happened,’ said the captain, 
crossing his legs and leaning back against the door, 
‘was in March. The passenger who slept here, in 
the upper berth, turned out to have been a lunatic— 
at all events, he was known to have been a little 
touched, and he had taken his passage without the 
knowledge of his friends. He rushed out in the 
middle of the night, and threw himself overboard, 
before the officer who had the watch could stop him. 
We stopped and lowered a boat, it was a quiet night, 
just before that heavy weather came on; but we 
could not find him. Of course his suicide was after- 


THE UPPER BERTH 


167 


ward accounted for on the ground of his insanity.’ 

“ ‘I suppose that often happens?’ I remarked, 
rather absently. 

“ ‘Not often—no,’ said the captain; ‘never before 
in my experience, though I have heard of it happen¬ 
ing on board of other ships. Well, as I was saying, 
that occurred in March. On the very next trip— 
What are you looking at?’ he asked, stopping sud¬ 
denly in his narration. 

“I believe I gave no answer. My eyes were 
riveted upon the porthole. It seemed to me that 
the brass loop-nut was beginning to turn very slowly 
upon the screw—so slowly, however, that I was not 
sure it moved at all. I watched it intently, fixing 
its position in my mind, and trying to ascertain 
whether it changed. Seeing where I was looking, 
the captain looked too. 

“ ‘It moves!’ he exclaimed, in a tone of conviction. 
‘No, it does not,’ he added, after a minute. 

“ ‘If it were the jarring of the screw,’ said I, ‘it 
would have opened during the day; but I found it 
this evening jammed tight as I left it this morning.’ 

“I rose and tried the nut. It was certainly loos¬ 
ened, for by an effort I could move it with my 
hands. 

“ ‘The queer thing,’ said the captain, ‘is that the 
second man who was lost is supposed to have got 
through that very port. We had a terrible time 
over it. It was in the middle of the night, and the 
weather was very heavy; there was an alarm that 
one of the ports was open and the sea running in. 


168 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


I came below and found everything flooded, the 
water pouring in every time she rolled, and the 
whole port swinging from the top bolts—not the 
porthole in the middle. Well, we managed to shut 
it, but the water did some damage. Ever since that 
the place smells of seawater from time to time. We 
supposed the passenger had thrown himself out, 
though the Lord only knows how he did it. The 
steward kept telling me that he could not keep any¬ 
thing shut here. Upon my word—I can smell it 
now, cannot you?’ he inquired, sniffing the air sus¬ 
piciously. 

“ ‘Yes—distinctly,’ I said, and I shuddered as 
that same odor of stagnant seawater grew stronger 
in the cabin. ‘Now, to smell like this, the place must 
be damp,’ I continued, ‘and yet when I examined it 
with the carpenter this morning, everything was per¬ 
fectly dry. It is most extraordinary—hallo!’ 

“My reading-lantern, which had been placed in 
the upper berth, was suddenly extinguished. There 
was still a good deal of light from the pane of 
ground-glass near the door, behind which loomed 
the regulation lamp. The ship rolled heavily, and 
the curtain of the upper berth swung far out into 
the stateroom and back again. I rose quickly from 
my seat on the edge of the bed, and the captain at 
the same moment started to his feet with a loud cry 
of surprise. I had turned with the intention of tak¬ 
ing down the lantern to examine it, when I heard 
his exclamation, and immediately afterward his call 
for help. I sprang toward him. He was wrestling 


THE UPPER BERTH 


169 


with all his might with the brass loop of the port. 
It seemed to turn against his hands in spite of all 
his efforts. I caught up my cane, a heavy oak stick 
I always used to carry, and thrust it through the 
ring and bore on it with all my strength. But the 
strong wood snapped suddenly, and I fell upon the 
couch. When I rose again the port was wide open, 
and the captain was standing with his back against 
the door pale to the lips. 

“ ‘There is something in that berth!’ he cried, in 
a strange voice, his eyes almost starting from his 
head. ‘Hold the door, while I look—it shall not 
escape us, whatever it is!’ 

“But instead of taking his place, I sprang upon 
the lower bed and seized something which lay in the 
upper berth. 

“It was something ghostly, horrible beyond words, 
and it moved in my grip. It was like the body of a 
man long drowned, and yet it moved and had the 
strength of ten men living; but I gripped it with all 
my might—the slippery, oozy, horrible thing. The 
dead white eyes seemed to stare at me out of the 
dusk; the putrid odor of rank seawater was about it, 
and its shiny hair hung in foul wet curls over its dead 
face. I wrestled with the dead thing; it thrust itself 
upon me and forced me back and nearly broke my 
arms; it wound its corpse’s arms about my neck, the 
living death, and overpowered me, so that I, at last, 
cried aloud and fell and left my hold. 

“As I fell, the thing sprang across me and seemed 
to throw itself upon the captain. When I last saw 


170 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


him on his feet, his face was white and his lips set. 
It seemed to me that he struck a violent blow at the 
dead being, and then he, too, fell forward upon his 
face, with an inarticulate cry of horror. 

“The thing paused an instant, seeming to hover 
over his prostrate body, and I could have screamed 
again for very fright, but I had no voice left. The 
thing vanished suddenly, and it seemed to my dis¬ 
turbed senses that it made its exit through the open 
port, though how that was possible, considering the 
smallness of the aperture, is more than any one can 
tell. I lay a long time upon the floor, and the captain 
lay beside me. At last I partially recovered my 
senses and moved, and I instantly knew that my 
arm was broken—the small bone of the left forearm 
near the wrist. 

“I got upon my feet somehow, and with my re¬ 
maining hand I tried to raise the captain. He 
groaned and moved, and at last came to himself. 
He was not hurt, but he seemed badly stunned. 

“Well, do you want to hear any more? There 
is nothing more. That is the end of my story. The 
carpenter carried out his scheme of running half a 
dozen four-inch screws through the door of one 
hundred and five, and if ever you take a passage in 
the ‘Kamtschatka,’ you may ask for a berth in that 
stateroom. You will be told that it is engaged—yes 
—it is engaged by that dead thing. 

“I finished the trip in the surgeon’s cabin. He 
doctored my broken arm, and advised me not to 
/fiddle about with ghosts and things’ any more. The 


THE UPPER BERTH 


171 


captain was very silent, and never sailed again in 
that ship, though it is still running. And I will not 
sail in her either. It was a very disagreeable experi¬ 
ence, and I was very badly frightened, which is a 
thing I do not like. That is all. That is how I sayv 
a ghost—if it was a ghost. It was dead, anyhow.” 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


By Fitz-James O’Brien 

I 

THE BENDING OF THE TWIG 

From a very early period of my life the entire bent 
of my inclinations had been towards microscopic 
investigations. When I was not more than ten years 
old, a distant relative of our family, hoping to as¬ 
tonish my inexperience, constructed a simple micro¬ 
scope for me, by drilling in a disk of copper a small 
hole, in which a drop of pure water was sustained 
by capillary attraction. This very primitive appa¬ 
ratus, magnifying some fifty diameters, presented, 
it is true, only indistinct and imperfect forms, but 
still sufficiently wonderful to work up my imagina¬ 
tion to a preternatural state of excitement. 

Seeing me so interested in this rude instrument, 
my cousin explained to me all that he knew about 
the principles of the microscope, related to me a few 
of the wonders which had been accomplished 
through its agency, and ended by promising to send 

From “ The Diamond Lens, and Other Stories,” edited by- 
William Winter, 1885. 


172 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


173 


me one regularly constructed, immediately on his 
return to the city. I counted the days, the hours, 
the minutes, that intervened between that promise 
and his departure. 

Meantime I was not idle. Every transparent sub¬ 
stance that bore the remotest resemblance to a lens 
I eagerly seized upon, and employed in vain attempts 
to realize that instrument, the theory of whose con¬ 
struction I as yet only vaguely comprehended. All 
panes of glass containing those oblate spheroidal 
knots familiarly known as “bull’s-eyes” were ruth¬ 
lessly destroyed, in the hope of obtaining lenses of 
marvellous power. I even went so far as to extract 
the crystalline humor from the eyes of fishes and 
animals, and endeavored to press it into the micro¬ 
scopic service. I plead guilty to having stolen the 
glasses from my Aunt Agatha’s spectacles, with a 
dim idea of grinding them into lenses of wondrous 
magnifying properties,—in which attempt it is 
scarcely necessary to say that I totally failed. 

At last the promised instrument came. It was of 
that order known as Field’s simple microscope, and 
had cost perhaps about fifteen dollars. As far as 
educational purposes went, a better apparatus could 
not have been selected. Accompanying it was a 
small treatise on the microscope,—its history, uses, 
and discoveries. I comprehended then for the first 
time the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.” The 
dull veil of ordinary existence that hung across the 
world seemed suddenly to roll away, and to lay bare 
a land of enchantments. I felt towards my com- 


174 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


panions as the seer might feel towards the ordinary 
masses of men. I held conversations with nature 
in a tongue which they could not understand. I was 
in daily communication with living wonders, such as 
they never imagined in their wildest visions. I 
penetrated beyond the external portal of things, and 
roamed through the sanctuaries. Where they beheld 
only a drop of rain slowly rolling down the window- 
glass, I saw a universe of beings animated with all 
the passions common to physical life, and convulsing 
their minute sphere with struggles as fierce and pro¬ 
tracted as those of men. In the common spots of 
mold, which my mother, good housekeeper that 
she was, fiercely scooped away from her jam pots, 
there abode for me, under the name of mildew, en¬ 
chanted gardens, filled with dells and avenues of the 
densest foliage and most astonishing verdure, while 
from the fantastic boughs of these microscopic 
forests, hung strange fruits glittering with green, 
and silver, and gold. 

It was no scientific thirst that at this time filled 
my mind. It was the pure enjoyment of a poet to 
whom a world of wonders has been disclosed. I 
talked of my solitary pleasures to none. Alone with 
my microscope, I dimmed my sight, day after day 
and night after night, poring over the marvels which 
it unfolded to me. I was like one who, having dis¬ 
covered the ancient Eden still existing in all its prim¬ 
itive glory, should resolve to enjoy it in solitude, 
and never betray to mortal the secret of its locality. 


THE DIAMOND LENS 175 

The rod of my life was bent at this moment. I 
destined myself to be a microscopist. 

Of course, like every novice, I fancied myself a 
discoverer. I was ignorant at the time of the 
thousands of acute intellects engaged in the same 
pursuit as myself, and with the advantage of instru¬ 
ments a thousand times more powerful than mine. 
The names of Leeuwenhoek, Williamson, Spencer, 
Ehrenberg, Schultz, Dujardin, Schact, and Schleiden 
were then entirely unknown to me, or if known, I 
was ignorant of their patient and wonderful re¬ 
searches. In every fresh specimen of cryptogamia 
which I placed beneath my instrument I believed that 
I discovered wonders of which the world was as yet 
ignorant. I remember well the thrill of delight and 
admiration that shot through me the first time that 
I discovered the common wheel animalcule ( Roti - 
fera vulgaris) expanding and contracting its flexible 
spokes, and seemingly rotating through the water. 
Alas! as I grew older, and obtained some works 
treating of my favorite study, I found that I was 
only on the threshold of a science to the investiga¬ 
tion of which some of the greatest men of the age 
were devoting their lives and intellects. 

As I grew up, my parents, who saw but little like¬ 
lihood of anything practical resulting from the ex¬ 
amination of bits of moss and drops of water 
through a brass tube and a piece of glass, were 
anxious that I should choose a profession. It was 
their desire that I should enter the counting-house 
of my uncle, Ethan Blake, a prosperous merchant, 


176 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


who carried on business in New York. This sug¬ 
gestion I decisively combated. I had no taste for 
trade; I should only make a failure; in short, I 
refused to become a merchant. 

But it was necessary for me to select some pursuit. 
My parents were staid New England people, who 
insisted on the necessity of labor; and therefore, 
although, thanks to the bequest of my poor Aunt 
Agatha, I should, on coming of age, inherit a small 
fortune sufficient to place me above want, it was 
decided that, instead of waiting for this, I should act 
the nobler part, and employ the intervening years 
in rendering myself independent. 

After much cogitation I complied with the wishes 
of my family, and selected a profession. I deter¬ 
mined to study medicine at the New York Academy. 
This disposition of my future suited me. A removal 
from my relatives would enable me to dispose of my 
time as I pleased without fear of detection. As 
long as I paid my Academy fees, I might shirk at¬ 
tending the lectures if I chose; and, as I never had 
the remotest intention of standing an examination, 
there was no danger of my being “plucked.” Be¬ 
sides, a metropolis was the place for me. There I 
could obtain excellent instruments, the newest pub¬ 
lications, intimacy with men of pursuits kindred with 
my own,—in short, all things necessary to insure a 
profitable devotion of my life to my beloved science. 
I had an abundance of money, few desires that were 
not bounded by my illuminating mirror on one side 
and my object-glass on the other; what, therefore, 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


177 


was to prevent my becoming an illustrious investiga¬ 
tor of the veiled worlds? It was with the most 
buoyant hope that I left my New England home 
and established myself in New York. 


II 

THE LONGING OF A MAN OF SCIENCE 

My first step, of course, was to find suitable 
apartments. These I obtained, after a couple of 
days’ search, in Fourth Avenue; a very pretty 
second-floor unfurnished, containing sitting-room, 
bedroom, and a smaller apartment which I intended 
to fit up as a laboratory. I furnished my lodgings 
simply, but rather elegantly, and then devoted all 
my energies to the adornment of the temple of my 
worship. I visited Pike, the celebrated optician, 
and passed in review his splendid collection of 
microscopes,—Field’s Compound, Hingham’s, Spen¬ 
cer’s, Nachet’s Binocular (that founded on the 
principles of the stereoscope), and at length fixed 
upon that form known as Spencer’s Trunnion 
Microscope, as combining the greatest number of 
improvements with an almost perfect freedom from 
tremor. Along with this I purchased every possi¬ 
ble accessory,—draw-tubes, micrometers, a camera - 
lucida, lever-stage, achromatic condensers, white 
cloud illuminators, prisms, parabolic condensers, 
polarizing apparatus, forceps, aquatic boxes, fishing- 
tubes, with a host of other articles, all of which 


178 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


would have been useful in the hands of an experi¬ 
enced microscopist, but, as I afterwards discovered, 
were not of the slightest present value to me. It 
takes years of practice to know how to use a com¬ 
plicated microscope. The optician looked suspi¬ 
ciously at me as I made these wholesale purchases. 
He evidently was uncertain whether to set me down 
as some scientific celebrity or a madman. I think 
he inclined to the latter belief. I suppose I was 
mad. Every great genius is mad upon the subject 
in which he is greatest. The unsuccessful madman 
is disgraced and called a lunatic. 

Mad or not, I set myself to work with a zeal 
which few scientific students have ever equalled. I 
had everything to learn relative to the delicate study 
upon which I had embarked,—a study involving the 
most earnest patience, the most rigid analytic 
powers, the steadiest hand, the most untiring eyes, 
the most refined and subtile manipulation. 

For a long time half my apparatus lay inactively 
on the shelves of my laboratory, which was now 
most amply furnished with every possible con¬ 
trivance for facilitating my investigations. The fact 
was that I did not know how to use some of my 
scientific implements,—never having been taught 
microscopies,—and those whose use I understood 
theoretically were of little avail, until by practice 
I could attain the necessary delicacy of handling. 
Still, such was the fury of my ambition, such the un¬ 
tiring perseverance of my experiments, that, difficult 
of credit as it may be, in the course of one year I 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


179 


became theoretically and practically an accomplished 
microscopist. 

During this period of my labors, in which I sub¬ 
mitted specimens of every substance that came under 
my observation to the action of my lenses, I became 
a discover—in a small way, it is true, for I was very 
young, but still a discover. It was I who destroyed 
Ehrenberg’s theory that the Volvox globator was an 
animal, and proved that his “nomads” with stomachs 
and eyes were merely phases of the formation of a 
vegetable cell, and were, when they reached their 
mature state, incapable of the act of conjugation, or 
any true generative act, without which no organism 
rising to any stage of life higher than vegetable can 
be said to be complete. It was I who resolved the 
singular problem of rotation in the cells and hairs 
of plants into ciliary attraction, in spite of the as¬ 
sertions of Mr. Wenham and others, that my ex¬ 
planation was the result of an optical illusion. 

But notwithstanding these discoveries, laboriously 
and painfully made as they were, I felt horribly 
dissatisfied. At every step I found myself stopped 
by the imperfections of my instruments. Like all 
active microscopists, I gave my imagination full 
play. Indeed, it is a common complaint against 
many such, that they supply the defects of their in¬ 
struments with the creations of their brains. I 
Imagined depths beyond depths in nature which the 
limited power of my lenses prohibited me from 
exploring. I lay awake at night constructing im¬ 
aginary microscopes of immeasurable power, with 


180 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


which I seemed to pierce through the envelopes of 
matter down to its original atom. How I cursed 
those imperfect mediums which necessity through 
ignorance compelled me to use! How I longed to 
discover the secret of some perfect lens, whose 
magnifying power should be limited only by the 
resolvability of the object, and which at the same 
time should be free from spherical and chromatic 
aberrations, in short from all the obstacles over 
which the poor microscopist finds himself continu¬ 
ally stumbling! I felt convinced that the simple 
microscope, composed of a single lens of such vast 
yet perfect power was possible of construction. To 
attempt to bring the compound microscope up to 
such a pitch would have been commencing at the 
wrong end; this latter being simply a partially 
successful endeavor to remedy those very defects of 
the simple instrument which, if conquered, would 
leave nothing to be desired. 

It was in this mood of mind that I became a con¬ 
structive microscopist. After another year passed 
in this new pursuit, experimenting on every imagin¬ 
able substance,—glass, gems, flints, crystals, artificial 
crystals formed of the alloy of various vitreous 
materials,—in short, having constructed as many 
varieties of lenses as Argus had eyes, I found myself 
precisely where I started, with nothing gained save 
an extensive knowledge of glass-making. I was 
almost dead with despair. My parents were sur¬ 
prised at my apparent want of progress in my 
medical studies (I had not attended one lecture since 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


181 


my arrival in the city), and the expenses of my mad 
pursuit had been so great as to embarrass me very 
seriously. 

I was in this frame of mind one day, experiment¬ 
ing in my laboratory on a small diamond,—that 
stone, from its great refracting power, having always 
occupied my attention more than any other,—when 
a young Frenchman, who lived on the floor above 
me, and who was in the habit of occasionally visiting 
me, entered the room. 

I think that Jules Simon was a Jew. He had many 
traits of the Hebrew character: a love of jewelry, 
of dress, and of good living. There was something 
mysterious about him. He always had something to 
sell, and yet went into excellent society. When I say 
sell, I should perhaps have said peddle; for his op¬ 
erations were generally confined to the disposal of 
single articles,—a picture, for instance, or a rare 
carving in ivory, or a pair of duelling-pistols, or the 
dress of a Mexican Caballero . When I was first 
furnishing my rooms, he paid me a visit, which 
ended in my purchasing an antique silver lamp, 
which he assured me was a Cellini,—it was hand¬ 
some enough even for that,—and some other knick- 
knacks for my sitting-room. Why Simon should 
pursue this petty trade I never could imagine. He 
apparently had plenty of money, and had the entree 
of the best houses in the city,—taking care, however, 
I suppose, to drive no bargains within the enchanted 
circle of the Upper Ten. I came at length to the 
conclusion that this peddling was but a mask to 


182 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


cover some greater object, and even went so far as 
to believe my young acqaintance to be implicated 
in the slave-trade. That, however, was none of my 
affair. 

On the present occasion, Simon entered my room 
in a state of considerable excitement. 

“Ah! mon amir he cried, before I could even 
offer him the ordinary salutation, “it has occurred 
to me to be the witness of the most astonishing 
things in the world. I promenade myself to the 
house of Madame—how does the little animal— le 
renard —name himself in the Latin?” 

“Vulpes,” I answered. 

“Ah! yes,—Vulpes. I promenade myself to the 
house of Madame Vulpes.” 

“The spirit medium?” 

“Yes, the great medium. Great heavens! what a 
woman! I write on a slip of paper many of ques¬ 
tions concerning affairs the most secret,—affairs that 
conceal themselves in the abysses of my heart the 
most profound; and behold! by example! what oc¬ 
curs? This devil of a woman makes me replies the 
most truthful to all of them. She talks to me of 
things that I do not love to talk of to myself. What 
am I to think? I am fixed to the earth!” 

“Am I to understand you, M. Simon, that this 
Mrs. Vulpes replied to questions secretly written by 
you, which questions related to events known only 
to yourself?” 

“Ah! more than that, more than that,” he an¬ 
swered, with an air of some alarm. “She related to 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


183 


me things— But,” he added, after a pause, and 
suddenly changing his manner, “why occupy our¬ 
selves with these follies? It was all the biology, 
without doubt. It goes without saying that it has 
not my credence— But why are we here, mon ami? 
It has occurred to me to discover the most beautiful 
thing as you can imagine,—a vase with green lizards 
on it, composed by the great Bernard Palissy. It is 
in my apartment; let us mount. I go to show it to 
you.” 

I followed Simon mechanically; but my thoughts 
were far from Palissy and his enamelled ware, 
although I, like him, was seeking in the dark a great 
discovery. This casual mention of the spiritualist, 
Madame Vulpes, set me on a new track. What if 
this spiritualism should be really a great fact? 
What if, through communication with more subtile 
organisms than my own, I could reach at a single 
bound the goal, which perhaps a life of agonizing 
mental toil would never enable me to attain? 

While purchasing the Palissy vase from my friend 
Simon, I was mentally arranging a visit to Madame 
Vulpes. 


Ill 

THE SPIRIT OF LEEUWENHOEK 

Two evenings after this, thanks to an arrange¬ 
ment by letter and the promise of an ample fee, I 
found Madame Vulpes awaiting me at her residence 


184 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


alone. She was a coarse-featured woman, with keen 
and rather cruel dark eyes, and an exceedingly sen¬ 
sual expression about her mouth and under jaw. 
She received me in perfect silence, in an apartment 
on the ground floor, very sparely furnished. In the 
centre of the room, close to where Mrs. Vulpes sat, 
there was a common round mahogany table. If I 
had come for the purpose of sweeping her chimney, 
the woman could not have looked more indifferent 
to my appearance. There was no attempt to inspire 
the visitor with awe. Everything bore a simple and 
practical aspect. This intercourse with the spiritual 
world was evidently as familiar an occupation with 
Mrs. Vulpes as eating her dinner or riding in an 
omnibus. 

“You come for a communication, Mr. Linley?” 
said the medium, in a dry, business-like tone of voice. 

“By appointment,—yes.” 

“What sort of communication do you want—a 
written one?” „ 

“Yes—I wish for a written one.” 

“From any particular spirit?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you ever known this spirit on this earth?” 

“Never. He died long before I was born. I wish 
merely to obtain from him some information which 
he ought to be able to give better than any other.” 

“Will you seat yourself at the table, Mr. Linley,” 
said the medium, “and place your hands upon it?” 

I obeyed,—Mrs. Vulpes being seated opposite to 
me, with her hands also on the table. We remained 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


185 


thus for about a minute and a half, when a violent 
succession of raps came on the table, on the back of 
my chair, on the floor immediately under my feet, 
and even on the window-panes. Mrs. Vulpes smiled 
composedly. 

“They are very strong to-night,” she remarked. 
“You are fortunate.” She then continued, “Will the 
spirits communicate with this gentleman?” 

Vigorous affirmative. 

“Will the particular spirit he desires to speak with 
communicate?” 

A very confused rapping followed this question. 

“I know what they mean,” said Mrs. Vulpes, ad¬ 
dressing herself to me; “they wish you to write down 
the name of the particular spirit that you desire to 
converse with. Is that so?” she added, speaking 
to her invisible guests. 

That it was so was evident from the numerous 
affirmatory responses. While this was going on, I 
tore a slip from my pocket-book, and scribbled a 
name, under the table. 

“Will this spirit communicate in writing with this 
gentleman?” asked the medium once more. 

After a moment’s pause, her hand seemed to be 
seized with a violent tremor, shaking so forcibly 
that the table vibrated. She said that a spirit had 
seized her hand and would write. I handed her 
some sheets of paper that were on the table, and a 
pencil. The latter she held loosely in her hand, 
which presently began to move over the paper with 
a singular and seemingly involuntary motion. After 


186 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


a few moments had elapsed, she handed me the 
paper, on which I found written, in a large, uncul¬ 
tivated hand, the words, “He is not here, but has 
been sent for.” A pause of a minute or so now en¬ 
sued, during which Mrs. Vulpes remained perfectly 
silent, but the raps continued at regular intervals. 
When the short period I mention had elapsed, the 
hand of the medium was again seized with its con¬ 
vulsive tremor, and she wrote, under this strange 
influence, a few words on the paper, which she 
handed to me. They were as follows:— 

“I am here. Question me. Leeuwenhoek.” 

I was astounded. The name was identical with 
that I had written beneath the table, and carefully 
kept concealed. Neither was it at all probable that 
an uncultivated woman like Mrs. Vulpes should 
know even the name of the great father of micro¬ 
scopies. It may have been biology; but this theory 
was soon doomed to be destroyed. I wrote on my 
slip—still concealing it from Mrs. Vulpes—a series 
of questions, which, to avoid tediousness, I shall 
place with the responses, in the order in which they 
occurred:— 

I.—Can the microscope be brought to perfection? 

Spirit.—Yes. 

I.—Am I destined to accomplish this great task? 

Spirit.—You are. 

I.—I wish to know how to proceed to attain this 
end. For the love which you bear to science, help 
me! 

Spirit.—A diamond of one hundred and forty 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


187 


carats, submitted to electro-magnetic currents for a 
long period, will experience a rearrangement of its 
atoms inter se, and from that stone you will form 
the universal lens. 

I.—Will great discoveries result from the use of 
such a lens? 

Spirit.—So great that all that has gone before is 
as nothing. 

I.—But the refractive power of the diamond is so 
immense, that the image will be formed within the 
lens. How is that difficulty to be surmounted? 

Spirit.—Pierce the lens through its axis, and the 
difficulty is obviated. The image will be formed in 
the pierced space, which will itself serve as a tube 
to look through. Now I am called. Good-night. 

I cannot at all describe the effect that these extra¬ 
ordinary communications had upon me. I felt com¬ 
pletely bewildered. No biological theory could ac¬ 
count for the discovery of the lens. The medium 
might, by means of biological rapport with my mind, 
have gone so far as to read my questions, and 
reply to them coherently. But biology could not 
enable her to discover that magnetic currents would 
so alter the crystals of the diamond as to remedy its 
previous defects, and admit of its being polished into 
a perfect lens. Some such theory may have passed 
through my head, it is true; but if so, I had forgotten 
it. In my excited condition of mind there was no 
course left but to become a convert, and it was in a 
state of the most painful nervous exaltation that I 
left the medium’s house that evening. She accom- 


188 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


panied me to the door, hoping that I was satisfied. 
The raps followed us as we went through the hall, 
sounding on the balusters, the flooring, and even the 
lintels of the door. I hastily expressed my satisfac¬ 
tion, and escaped hurriedly into the cool night air. 
I walked home with but one thought possessing me, 
—how to obtain a diamond of the immense size re¬ 
quired. My entire means multiplied a hundred 
times over would have been inadequate to its pur¬ 
chase. Besides, such stones are rare, and become 
historical. I could find such only in the regalia of 
Eastern or European monarchs. 


IV 

THE EYE OF MORNING 

There was a light in Simon’s room as I entered 
my house. A vague impulse urged me to visit him. 
As I opened the door of his sitting-room unan¬ 
nounced, he was bending, with his back toward me, 
over a carcel lamp, apparently engaged in minutely 
examining some object which he held in his hands. 
As I entered, he started suddenly thrust his hand 
into his breast pocket, and turned to me with a face 
crimson with confusion. 

“What!” I cried, “poring over the miniature of 
some fair lady? Well, don’t blush so much; I 
won’t ask to see it.” 

Simon laughed awkwardly enough, but made 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


189 


none of the negative protestations usual on such 
occasions. He asked me to take a seat. 

“Simon,” said I, “I have just come from Madame 
Vulpes.” 

This time Simon turned as white as a sheet, and 
seemed stupefied, as if a sudden electric shock had 
smitten him. He babbled some incoherent words, 
and went hastily to a small closet where he usually 
kept his liquors. Although astonished at his emo¬ 
tion, I was too preoccupied with my own idea to pay 
much attention to anything else. 

“You say truly when you call Madame Vulpes a 
devil of a woman,” I continued. “Simon, she told 
me wonderful things to-night, or rather was the 
means of telling me wonderful things. Ah! if I 
could only get a diamond that weighed one hundred 
and forty carats!” 

Scarcely had the sigh with which I uttered this 
desire died upon my lips, when Simon, with the as¬ 
pect of a wild beast, glared at me savagely, and, 
rushing to the mantelpiece, where some foreign 
weapons hung on the wall, caught up a Malay creese, 
and brandished it furiously before him. 

“No!” he cried in French, into which he always 
broke when excited. “No! you shall not have it! 
You are perfidious! You have consulted with that 
demon, and desire my treasure! But I will die first! 
Me! I am brave! You cannot make me fear!” 

All this, uttered in a loud voice trembling with 
excitement, astounded me. I saw at a glance that 
I had accidentally trodden upon the edges of Simon’s 


190 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


secret, whatever it was. It was necessary to reassure 
him. 

“My dear Simon,” I said, “I am entirely at a loss 
to know what you mean. I went to Madame Vulpes 
to consult with her on a scientific problem, to the 
solution of which I discovered that a diamond of the 
size I just mentioned was necessary. You were 
never alluded to during the evening, nor, so far as 
I was concerned, even thought of. What can be the 
meaning of this outburst? If you happen to have 
a set of valuable diamonds in your possession, you 
need fear nothing from me. The diamond which I 
require you could not possess; or, if you did possess 
it, you would not be living here.” 

Something in my tone must have completely re¬ 
assured him; for his expression immediately changed 
to a sort of constrained merriment, combined, how¬ 
ever, with a certain suspicious attention to my 
movements. He laughed, and said that I must 
bear with him; that he was at certain moments sub¬ 
ject to a species of vertigo, which betrayed itself 
in incoherent speeches, and that the attacks passed 
off as rapidly as they came. He put his weapon 
aside while making this explanation, and endeav¬ 
ored, with some success, to assume a more cheerful 
air. 

All this did not impose on me in the least. I was 
too much accustomed to analytical labors to be 
baffled by so flimsy a veil. I determined to probe 
the mystery to the bottom. 

“Simon,” I said, gayly, “let us forget all this 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


191 


over a bottle of Burgundy. I have a case of Laus- 
seure’s Clos Vougeot downstairs, fragrant with the 
odors and ruddy with the sunlight of the Cote d’Or. 
Let us have up a couple of bottles. What say you?” 

“With all my heart,” answered Simon, smilingly. 

I produced the wine and we seated ourselves to 
drink. It was of a famous vintage, that of 1848, a 
year when war and wine throve together,—and its 
pure but powerful juice seemed to impart renewed 
vitality to the system. By the time we had half 
finished the second bottle, Simon’s head, which I 
knew was a weak one, had begun to yield, while I 
remained calm as ever, only that every draught 
seemed to send a flush of vigor through my limbs. 
Simon’s utterance became more and more indis¬ 
tinct. He took to singing French chansons of a not 
very moral tendency. T rose suddenly from the 
table just at the conclusion of one of those incoherent 
verses, and fixing my eyes on him with a quiet 
smile, said: “Simon, I have deceived you. I 
learned your secret this evening. You may as well 
be frank with me. Mrs. Vulpes, or rather one of 
her spirits, told me all.” 

He started with horror. His intoxication seemed 
for the moment to fade away, and he made a move¬ 
ment towards the weapon that he had a short time 
before laid down. I stopped him with my hand. 

“Monster!” he cried, passionately, “I am ruined! 
What shall I do? You shall never have it! I 
swear by my mother!” 


192 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“I don’t want it,” I said; “rest secure, but be 
frank with me. Tell me all about it.” 

The drunkenness began to return. He protested 
with maudlin earnestness that I was entirely mis¬ 
taken,—that I was intoxicated; then asked me to 
swear eternal secrecy, and promised to disclose the 
mystery to me. I pledged myself, of course, to all. 
With an uneasy look in his eyes, and hands unsteady 
with drink and nervousness, he drew a small case 
from his breast and opened it. Heavens! How 
the mild lamplight was shivered into a thousand 
prismatic arrows, as it fell upon a vast rose-diamond 
that glittered in the case! I was no judge of dia¬ 
monds, but I saw at a glance that this was a gem 
of rare size and purity. I looked at Simon with 
wonder, and—must I confess it?—with envy. How 
could he have obtained this treasure? In reply to 
my questions, I could just gather from his drunken 
statements (of which, I fancy, half the incoherence 
was affected) that he had been superintending a 
gang of slaves engaged in diamond-washing in 
Brazil; that he had seen one of them secrete a dia¬ 
mond, but, instead of informing his employers, had 
quietly watched the negro until he saw him bury his 
treasure; that he had dug it up and fled with it, but 
that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose of it 
publicly,—so valuable a gem being almost certain to 
attract too much attention to its owner’s antecedents, 
—and he had not been able to discover any of those 
obscure channels by which such matters are con¬ 
veyed away safely. He added, that, in accordance 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


193 


with oriental practice, he had named his diamond 
with the fanciful title of “The Eye of Morning.” 

While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded 
the great diamond attentively. Never had I beheld 
anything so beautiful. All the glories of light, ever 
imagined or described, seemed to pulsate in its 
crystalline chambers. Its weight, as I learned from 
Simon, was exactly one hundred and forty carats. 
Here was an amazing coincidence. The hand of 
destiny seemed in it. On the very evening when the 
spirit of Leeuwenhoek communicates to me the 
great secret of the microscope, the priceless means 
which he directs me to employ start up within my 
easy reach! I determined, with the most perfect 
deliberation, to possess myself of Simon’s diamond. 

I sat opposite to him while he nodded over his 
glass, and calmly revolved the whole affair. I did 
not for an instant contemplate so foolish an act as a 
common theft, which would of course be discovered 
or at least necessitate flight and concealment, all of 
which must interfere with my scientific plans. 
There was but one step to be taken,—to kill Simon. 
After all, what was the life of a little peddling Jew, 
in comparison with the interests of science? Human 
beings are taken every day from the condemned 
prisons to be experimented on by surgeons. This 
man, Simon, was by his own confession a criminal, 
a robber, and I believed on my soul a murderer. He 
deserved death quite as much as any felon con¬ 
demned by the laws: why should I not, like govern- 


194 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


ment, contrive that his punishment should contrib¬ 
ute to the progress of human knowledge ? 

The means for accomplishing everything I desired 
lay within my reach. There stood upon the mantel¬ 
piece a bottle half full of French laudanum. Simon 
was so occupied with his diamond, which I had just 
restored to him, that it was an affair of no difficulty 
to drug his glass. In a quarter of an hour he was in 
a profound sleep. 

I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond 
from the inner pocket in which he had placed it, and 
removed him to the bed, on which I laid him so that 
his feet hung down over the edge. I had possessed 
myself of the Malay creese, which I held in my 
right hand, while with the other I discovered as 
accurately as I could by pulsation the exact locality 
of the heart. It was essential that all the aspects 
of his death should lead to the surmise of self- 
murder. I calculated the exact angle at which it 
was probable that the weapon, if levelled by Simon’s 
own hand, would enter his breast; then with one 
powerful blow I thrust it up to the hilt in the very 
spot which I desired to penetrate. A convulsive 
thrill ran through Simon’s limbs. I heard a smoth¬ 
ered sound issue from his throat, precisely like the 
bursting of a larger air-bubble, sent up by a diver, 
when it reaches the surface of the water; he turned 
half round on his side, and, as if to assist my plans 
more effectually, his right hand, moved by some 
mere spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle of the 
creese, which it remained holding with extraordinary 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


195 


muscular tenacity. Beyond this there was no ap¬ 
parent struggle. The laudanum, I presume, par¬ 
alyzed the usual nervous action. He must have 
died instantly. 

There was yet something to be done. To make 
it certain that all suspicion of the act should be di¬ 
verted from any inhabitant of the house to Simon 
himself, it was necessary that the door should be 
found in the morning locked on the inside. How to 
do this, and afterwards escape myself? Not by 
the window; that was a physical impossibility. 
Besides, I was determined that the windows also 
should be found bolted. The solution was simple 
enough. I descended softly to my own room for a 
peculiar instrument which I had used for holding 
small slippery substances, such as minute spheres of 
glass, etc. This instrument was nothing more than 
a long slender hand-vise, with a very powerful 
grip, and a considerable leverage, which last was 
accidentally owing to the shape of the handle. 
Nothing was simpler than, when the key was in the 
lock, to seize the end of its stem in this vise, through 
the keyhole, from the outside, and lock the door. 
Previously, however, to doing this, I burned a 
number of papers on Simon’s hearth. Suicides 
almost always burn papers before they destroy 
themselves. I also emptied some more laudanum 
into Simon’s glass,—having first removed from it 
all traces of wine,—cleaned the other wine-glass, 
and brought the bottles away with me. If traces 
of two persons drinking had been found in the room, 


196 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


the question naturally would have arisen, Who was 
the second? Besides, the wine-bottles might have 
been identified as belonging to me. The laudanum 
I poured out to account for its presence in his 
stomach, in case of a post-mortem examination. 
The theory naturally would be, that he first intended 
to poison himself, but, after swallowing a little of 
the drug, was either disgusted with its taste, or 
changed his mind from other motives, and chose the 
dagger. These arrangements made, I walked out, 
leaving the gas burning, locked the door with my 
vise, and went to bed. 

Simon’s death was not discovered until nearly 
three in the afternoon. The servant, astonished at 
seeing the gas burning,—the light streaming on the 
dark landing from under the door,—peeped through 
the keyhole and saw Simon on the bed. She gave 
the alarm. The door was burst open, and the 
neighborhood was in a fever of excitement. 

Everyone in the house was arrested, myself in¬ 
cluded. There was an inquest; but no clew to his 
death beyond that of suicide could be obtained. 
Curiously enough, he had made several speeches to 
his friends the preceding week, that seemed to point 
to self-destruction. One gentleman swore that 
Simon had said in his presence that “he was tired of 
life.” His landlord affirmed that Simon, when pay¬ 
ing him his last month’s rent, remarked that “he 
should not pay him rent much longer.” All the 
other evidence corresponded,—the door locked in¬ 
side, the position of the corpse, the burnt papers. 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


197 


As I anticipated, no one knew of the possession of 
the diamond by Simon, so that no motive was sug¬ 
gested for his murder. The jury, after a prolonged 
examination, brought in the usual verdict, and the 
neighorhood once more settled down into its accus¬ 
tomed quiet. 


V 

ANIMULA 

The three months succeeding Simon’s catastrophe 
1 devoted night and day to my diamond lens. I 
had constructed a vast galvanic battery, composed 
of nearly two thousand pairs of plates,—a higher 
power I dared not use, lest the diamond should be 
calcined. By means of this enormous engine I was 
enabled to send a powerful current of electricity 
continually through my great diamond, which it 
seemed to me gained in lustre every day. At the 
expiration of a month I commenced the grinding and 
polishing of the lens, a work of intense toil and 
exquisite delicacy. The great density of the stone, 
and the care required to be taken with the curvatures 
of the surfaces of the lens, rendered the labor the 
severest and most harassing that I had yet under¬ 
gone. 

At last the eventful moment came; the lens was 
completed. I stood trembling on the threshold of 
new worlds. I had the realization of Alexander’s 
famous wish before me. The lens lay on the table, 


198 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


ready to be placed upon Its platform. My hand 
fairly shook as I enveloped a drop of water with a 
thin coating of oil of turpentine, preparatory to its 
examination,—a process necessary in order to pre¬ 
vent the rapid evaporation of the water. I now 
placed the drop on a thin slip of glass under the 
lens, and throwing upon it, by the combined aid of a 
prism and a mirror, a powerful stream of light, I 
approached my eye to the minute hole drilled 
through the axis of the lens. For an instant I saw 
nothing save what semed to be an illuminated chaos, 
a vast luminous abyss. A pure white light, cloudless 
and serene, and seemingly as limitless as space itself, 
was my first impression. Gently, and with the 
greatest care, I depressed the lens a few hair’s- 
breadths. The wondrous illumination still con¬ 
tinued, but as the lens approached the object a scene 
of indescribable beauty was unfolded to my view. 

I seemed to gaze upon a vast space, the limits of 
which extended far beyond my vision. An atmos¬ 
phere of magical luminousness permeated the entire 
field of view. I was amazed to see no trace of 
animalculous life. Not a living thing, apparently, 
inhabited that dazzling expanse. I comprehended 
instantly that, by the wondrous power of my lens, I 
had penetrated beyond the grosser particles of 
aqueous matter, beyond the realms of infusoria and 
protozoa, down to the original gaseous globule, into 
whose luminous interior I was gazing, as into an 
almost boundless dome filled with a supernatural 
radiance. 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


199 


It was, however, no brilliant void into which I 
looked. On every side I beheld beautiful inorganic 
forms, of unknown texture, and colored with the 
most enchanting hues. These forms presented the 
appearance of what might be called, for want of a 
more specific definition, foliated clouds of the high¬ 
est rarity; that is, they undulated and broke into 
vegetable formations, and were tinged with splen¬ 
dors compared with which the gilding of our autumn 
woodlands is as dross compared with gold. Far 
away into the illimitable distance stretched long 
avenues of these gaseous forests, dimly transparent, 
and painted with prismatic hues of unimaginable 
brilliancy. The pendent branches waved along the 
fluid glades until every vista seemed to break through 
half-lucent ranks of many-colored drooping silken 
pennons. What seemed to be either fruits or flow¬ 
ers, pied with a thousand hues lustrous and ever 
varying, bubbled from the crowns of this fairy 
foliage. No hills, no lakes, no rivers, no forms ani¬ 
mate or inanimate, were to be seen, save those vast 
auroral copses that floated serenely in the luminous 
stillness, with leaves and fruits and flowers gleaming 
with unknown fires, unrealizable by mere imagina¬ 
tion. 

How strange, I thought, that this sphere should 
be thus condemned to solitude! I had hoped, at 
least, to discover some new form of animal life— 
perhaps of a lower class than any with which we are 
at present acquainted, but still, some living organism. 


200 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


I found my newly discovered world, if I may so 
speak, a beautiful chromatic desert. 

While I was speculating on the singular arrange¬ 
ments of the internal economy of Nature, with 
which she so frequently splinters into atoms our 
most compact theories, I thought I beheld a form 
moving slowly through the glades of one of the 
prismatic forests. I looked more attentively, and 
found that I was not mistaken. Words cannot 
depict the anxiety with which I awaited the nearer 
approach of this mysterious object. Was it merely 
some inanimate substance, held in suspense in the 
attenuated atmosphere of the globule, or was it an 
animal endowed with vitality and motion? It 
approached, flitting behind the gauzy, colored veils 
of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly revealed, then 
vanishing. At last the violet pennons that trailed 
nearest to me vibrated; they were gently pushed 
aside, and the form floated out into the broad light. 

It was a female human shape. When I say hu¬ 
man, I mean it possessed the outlines of humanity, 
—but there the analogy ends. Its adorable beauty 
lifted it illimitable heights beyond the loveliest 
daughter of Adam. 

I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the 
charms of this divine revelation of perfect beauty. 
Those eyes of mystic violet, dewy and serene, evade 
my words. Her long, lustrous hair following her 
glorious head in a golden wake, like the track sown 
in heaven by a falling star, seems to quench my 
most burning phrases with its splendors. If all the 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


201 


bees of Hybla nestled upon my lips, they would still 
sing but hoarsely the wondrous harmonies of outline 
that enclosed her form. 

She swept out from between the rainbow-curtains 
of the cloud-trees into the broad sea of light that 
lay beyond. Her motions were those of some grace¬ 
ful naiad, cleaving, by a mere effort of her will, the 
clear, unruffled waters that fill the chambers of the 
sea. She floated forth with the serene grace of a 
frail bubble ascending through the still atmosphere 
of a June day. The perfect roundness of her limbs 
formed suave and enchanting curves. It was like 
listening to the most spiritual symphony of Bee¬ 
thoven the divine, to watch the harmonious flow of 
lines. This, indeed, was a pleasure cheaply pur¬ 
chased at any price. What cared I if I had waded 
to the portal of this wonder through another’s 
blood? I would have given my own to enjoy one 
such moment of intoxication and delight. 

Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and 
forgetful for an instant of everything save her pres¬ 
ence, I withdrew my eye from the microscope 
eagerly,—alas! As my gaze fell on the thin slide 
that lay beneath my instrument, the bright light 
from mirror and from prism sparkled on a colorless 
drop of water! There, in that tiny bead of dew, 
this beautiful being was forever imprisoned. The 
planet Neptune was not more distant from me than 
she. I hastened once more to apply my eye to the 
microscope. 

Animula (let me now call her by that dear name 


202 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


which I subsequently bestowed on her) had changed 
her position. She had again approached the won¬ 
drous forest, and was gazing earnestly upwards. 
Presently one of the trees—as I must call them— 
unfolded a long ciliary process, with which it seized 
one of the gleaming fruits that glittered on its sum¬ 
mit, and, sweeping slowly down, held it within reach 
of Animula. The sylph took it in her delicate hand 
and began to eat. My attention was so entirely 
absorbed by her, that I could not apply myself to 
the task of determining whether this singular plant 
was or was not instinct with volition. 

I watched her, as she made her repast, with the 
most profound attention. The suppleness of her 
motions sent a thrill of delight through my frame; 
my heart beat madly as she turned her beautiful eyes 
in the direction of the spot in which I stood. What 
would I not have given to have had the power to 
precipitate myself into that luminous ocean, and 
float with her through those groves of purple and 
gold! While I was thus breathlessly following her 
every movement, she suddenly started, seemed to 
listen for a moment, and then cleaving the brilliant 
ether in which she was floating, like a flash of light, 
pierced through the opaline forest, and disappeared. 

Instantly a series of the most singular sensations 
attacked me. It seemed as if I had suddenly gone 
blind. The luminous sphere was still before me, 
but my daylight had vanished. What caused this 
sudden disappearance? Had she a lover or a 
husband? Yes, that was the solution! Some 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


203 


signal from a happy fellow-being had vibrated 
through the avenues of the forest, and she had 
obeyed the summons. 

The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this 
conclusion, startled me. I tried to reject the con¬ 
viction that my reason forced upon me. I battled 
against the fatal conclusion,—but in vain. It was 
so. I had no escape from it. I loved an animalcule! 

It is true that, thanks to the marvellous power of 
my microscope, she appeared of human proportions. 
Instead of presenting the revolting aspect of the 
coarser creatures, that live and struggle and die, in 
the more easily resolvable portions of the water- 
drop, she was fair and delicate and of surpassing 
beauty. But of what account was all that? Every 
time that my eyes was withdrawn from the instru¬ 
ment, it fell on a miserable drop of water, within 
which, I must be content to know, dwelt all that 
could make my life lovely. 

Could she but see me once! Could I for one 
moment pierce the mystical walls that so inexorably 
rose to separate us, and whisper all that filled my 
soul, I might consent to be satisfied for the rest of 
my life with the knowledge of her remote sympathy. 
It would be something to have established even the 
faintest personal link to bind us together,—to know 
that at times, when roaming through those en¬ 
chanted glades, she might think of the wonderful 
stranger, who had broken the monotony of her life 
with his presence, and left a gentle memory in her 
heart! 


204 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


But it could not be. No invention of which 
human intellect was capable could break down the 
barriers that nature had erected. I might feast my 
soul upon the wondrous beauty, yet she must always 
remain ignorant of the adoring eyes that day and 
night gazed upon her, and, even when closed, beheld 
her in dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish I fled 
from the room, and, flinging myself on my bed, 
sobbed myself to sleep like a child. 

VI 

THE SPILLING OF THE CUP 

I arose the next morning almost at daybreak, and 
rushed to my microscope. I trembled as I sought 
the luminous world in miniature that contained my 
all. Animula was there. I had left the gas-lamp, 
surrounded by its moderators, burning when I went 
to bed the night before. I found the sylph bathing, 
as it were, with an expression of pleasure animating 
her features, in the brilliant light which surrounded 
her. She tossed her lustrous golden hair over her 
shoulders with innocent coquetry. She lay at full 
length in the transparent medium, in which she sup¬ 
ported herself with ease, and gambolled with the 
enchanting grace that the nymph Salmacis might 
have exhibited when she sought to conquer the 
modest Hermaphroditus. I tried an experiment to 
satisfy myself if her powers of reflection were de¬ 
veloped. I lessened the lamplight considerably. By 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


205 


the dim light that remained, I could see an expres¬ 
sion of pain flit across her face. She looked upward 
suddenly, and her brows contracted. I flooded the 
stage of the microscope again with a full stream of 
light, and her whole expression changed. She 
sprang forward like some substance deprived of all 
weight. Her eyes sparkled and her lips moved. 
Ah! if science had only the means of conducting and 
reduplicating sounds, as it does the rays of light, 
what carols of happiness would then have entranced 
my ears! what jubilant hymns to Adonais would 
have thrilled the illumined air! 

I now comprehend how it was that the Count de 
Gabalis peopled his mystic world with sylphs,— 
beautiful beings whose breath of life was lambent 
fire, and who sported forever in regions of purest 
ether and purest light. The Rosicrucian had antici¬ 
pated the wonder that I had practically realized. 

How long this worship of my strange divinity 
went on thus I scarcely know. I lost all note of 
time. All day from early dawn, and far into the 
night, I was to be found peering through that won¬ 
derful lens. I saw no one, went nowhere, and scarce 
allowed myself sufficient time for my meals. My 
whole life was absorbed in contemplation as rapt 
as that of any of the Romish saints. Every hour 
that I gazed upon the divine form strengthened my 
passion,—a passion that was always overshadowed 
by the maddening conviction that, although I could 
gaze on her at will, she never, never could behold 


206 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


At length I grew so pale and emaciated from want 
of rest and continual brooding over my insane love 
and its cruel conditions, that I determined to make 
some effort to wean myself from it. “Come,” I 
said, “this is at best but a fantasy. Your imagination 
has bestowed on Animula charms which in reality 
she does not possess. Seclusion from female society 
has produced this morbid condition of mind. Com¬ 
pare her with the beautiful women of your own 
world, and this false enchantment will vanish.” 

I looked over the newspapers by chance. There 
I beheld the advertisement of a celebrated danseuse 
who appeared nightly at Niblo’s. The Signorina 
Caradolce had the reputation of being the most 
beautiful as well as the most graceful woman in the 
world. I instantly dressed and went to the theatre. 

The curtain drew up. The usual semicircle of 
fairies in white muslin were standing on the right 
toe around the enamelled flower-bank, of green 
canvas, on which the belated prince was sleeping. 
Suddenly a flute is heard. The fairies start. The 
trees open, the fairies all stand on the left toe, and 
the queen enters. It was the Signorina. She 
bounded forward amid thunders of applause, and, 
lighting on one foot, remained poised in air. 
Heavens! was this the great enchantress that had 
drawn monarchs at her chariot-wheels? Those 
heavy muscular limbs, those thick ankles, those 
cavernous eyes, that stereotyped smile, those crudely 
painted cheeks! Where were the vermeil blooms, 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


207 


the liquid expressive eyes, the harmonious limbs of 
Animula ? 

The Signorina danced. What gross, discordant 
movements! The play of her limbs was all false 
and artificial. Her bounds were painful athletic 
efforts; her poses were angular and distressed the 
eye. I could bear it no longer; with an exclamation 
of disgust that drew every eye upon me, I rose from 
my seat in the very middle of the Signorina’s pas-de¬ 
fascination, and abruptly quitted the house. 

I hastened home to feast my eyes once more on 
the lovely form of my sylph. I felt that henceforth 
to combat this passion would be impossible. I 
applied my eye to the lens. Animula was there,— 
but what could have happened? Some terrible 
change seemed to have taken place during my 
absence. Some secret grief seemed to cloud the 
lovely features of her I gazed upon. Her face had 
grown thin and haggard; her limbs trailed heavily; 
the wondrous lustre of her golden hair had faded. 
She was ill!—ill, and I could not assist her! I be¬ 
lieve at that moment I would have gladly forfeited 
all claims to my human birthright, if I could only 
have been dwarfed to the size of an animalcule, and 
permitted to console her from whom fate had for¬ 
ever divided me. 

I racked my brain for the solution of this mystery. 
What was it that afflicted the sylph? She seemed 
to suffer intense pain. Her features contracted, 
and she even writhed, as if with some internal 
agony. The wondrous forests appeared also to 


208 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


have lost half their beauty. Their hues were dim 
and in some places faded away altogether. I 
watched Animula for hours with a breaking heart, 
and she seemed absolutely to wither away under 
my very eye. Suddenly I remembered that I had not 
looked at the water-drop for several days. In fact, 
I hated to see it; for it reminded me of the natural 
barrier between Animula and myself. I hurriedly 
looked down on the stage of the microscope. The 
slide was still there,—but, great heavens! the water- 
drop had vanished! The awful truth burst upon 
me; it had evaporated; until it had become so 
minute as to be invisible to the naked eye; I had 
been gazing on its last atom, the one that contained 
Animula,—and she was dying! 

I rushed again to the front of the lens, and looked 
through. Alas! the last agony had seized her. 
The rainbow-hued forests had all melted away, and 
Animula lay struggling feebly in what seemed to be 
a spot of dim light. Ah! the sight was horrible; the 
limbs once so round and lovely shrivelling up into 
nothings; the eyes,—those eyes that shone like 
heaven—being quenched into black dust; the lustrous 
golden hair now lank and discolored. The last throe 
came. I beheld that final struggle of the blackening 
form—and I fainted. 

When I awoke out of a trance of many hours, I 
found myself lying amid the wreck of my instru¬ 
ment, myself as shattered in mind and body as it. 
I crawled feebly to my bed, from which I did not 
rise for months. 


THE DIAMOND LENS 


209 


They say now that I am mad; but they are mis¬ 
taken. I am poor, for I have neither the heart nor 
the will to work; all my money is spent, and I live 
on charity. Young men’s associations that love a 
joke invite me to lecture on Optics before them, for 
which they pay me and laugh at me while I lecture. 
“Linley, the mad microscopist,” is the name I go 
by. I suppose that I talk incoherently while I 
lecture. Who could talk sense when his brain is 
haunted by such ghastly memories, while ever and 
anon among the shapes of death I behold the radiant 
form of my lost Animula! 


THE HORLA 


By Guy de Maupassant 

May 8th. What a lovely day! I have spent all 
the morning lying in the grass in front of my house, 
under the enormous plantain tree which covers it, 
and shades and shelters the whole of it. I like this 
part of the country and I am fond of living here 
because I am attached to it by deep roots, profound 
and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil on 
which his ancestors were born and died, which at¬ 
tach him to what people think and what they eat, 
to the usages as well as to the food, local expression, 
the peculiar language of the peasants, to the smell 
of the soil, of the villages and of the atmosphere 
itself. 

I love my house in which I grew up. From my 
windows I can see the Seine which flows by the side 
of my garden, on the other side of the road, almost 
through my grounds, the great and wide Seine which 
goes to Rouen and Havre, and which is covered 
with boats passing to and fro. 

On the left, down yonder, lies Rouen, that large 
town with its blue roofs, under its pointed Gothic 
towers. They are innumerable, delicate or broad, 
dominated by the spire of the cathedral, and full of 


210 


THE HORLA 


211 


bells which sound through the blue air on fine morn¬ 
ings, sending their sweet and distant iron clang to 
me; their metallic sound which the breeze wafts in 
my direction, now stronger and now weaker, accord¬ 
ing as the wind is stronger or lighter. 

What a delicious morning it was! 

About eleven o’clock, a long line of boats drawn 
by a steam tug, as big as a fly, and which scarcely 
puffed while emitting its thick smoke, passed my 
gate. 

After two English schooners, whose red flag 
fluttered toward the sky, there came a magnificent 
Brazilian three-master; it was perfectly white and 
wonderfully clean and shining. I saluted it, I 
hardly know why, except that the sight of the vessel 
gave me great pleasure. 

May 12th. I have had a slight feverish attack 
for the last few days, and I feel ill, or rather I feel 
low-spirited. 

Whence do these mysterious influences come, 
which change our happiness into discouragement, 
and our self-confidence into diffidence? One might 
almost say that the air, the invisible air, is full of 
unknowable Forces, whose mysterious presence we 
have to endure. I wake up in the best spirits, with 
an inclination to sing in my throat. Why? I go 
down by the side of the water, and suddenly, after 
walking a short distance, I return home wretched, 
as if some misfortune were awaiting me there. 
Why? Is it a cold shiver which, passing over my 
skin, has upset my nerves and given me low spirits? 


212 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Is it the form of the clouds, or the color of the sky, 
or the color of the surrounding objects which is so 
changeable, which have troubled my thoughts as 
they passed before my eyes? Who can tell? 
Everything that surrounds us, everything that we 
see without looking at it, everything that we touch 
without knowing it, everything that we handle with¬ 
out feeling it, all that we meet without clearly distin¬ 
guishing it, has a rapid, surprising and inexplicable 
effect upon us and upon our organs, and through 
them on our ideas and on our heart itself. 

How profound that mystery of the Invisible is! 
We cannot fathom it with our miserable senses, with 
our eyes which are unable to perceive what is either 
too small or too great, too near to, or too far from 
us; neither the inhabitants of a star nor of a drop 
of water . . . with our ears that deceive us, for 
they transmit to us the vibrations of the air in 
sonorous notes. They are fairies who work the 
miracle of changing that movement into noise, and 
by that metamorphosis give birth to music, which 
makes the mute agitation of nature musical . . . 
with our sense of smell which is smaller than that 
of a dog . . . with our sense of taste which can 
scarcely distinguish the age of a wine! 

Oh! If we only had other organs which would 
work other miracles in our favor, what a number of 
fresh things we might discover around us! 

May 16th. I am ill, decidedly! I was so well last 
month! I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather 
I am in a state of feverish enervation, which makes 


THE IIORLA 


213 


my mind suffer as much as my body. I have with¬ 
out ceasing that horrible sensation of some danger 
threatening me, that apprehension of some coming 
misfortune or of approaching death, that presenti¬ 
ment which is, no doubt, an attack of some illness 
which is still unkown, which germinates in the flesh 
and in the blood. 

May 18th. I have just come from consulting my 
medical man, for I could no longer get any sleep. 
He found that my pulse was high, my eyes dilated, 
my nerves highly strung, but no alarming symptoms. 
I must have a course of shower-baths and of bromide 
of potassium. 

May 25th. No change! My state is really very 
peculiar. As the evening comes on, an incompre¬ 
hensible feeling of disquietude seizes me, just as if 
night concealed some terrible menace toward me. 
I dine quickly, and then try to read, but I do not 
understand the words, and can scarcely distinguish 
the letters. Then I walk up and down my drawing¬ 
room, oppressed by a feeling of confused and ir¬ 
resistible fear, the fear of sleep and fear of my bed. 

About ten o’clock I go up to my room. As soon 
as I have got in I double lock, and bolt it: I am 
frightened—of what? Up till the present time I 
have been frightened of nothing—I open my cup¬ 
boards, and look under my bed; I listen—I listen— 
to what? How strange it is that a simple feeling 
of discomfort, impeded or heightened circulation, 
perhaps the irritation of a nervous thread, a slight 
congestion, a small disturbance in the imperfect 


214 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


and delicate functions of our living machinery, can 
turn the most lighthearted of men into a melancholy 
one, and make a coward of the bravest! Then, I go 
to bed, and I wait for sleep as a man might wait for 
the executioner. I wait for its coming with dread, 
and my heart beats and my legs tremble, while my 
whole body shivers beneath the warmth of the bed¬ 
clothes, until the moment when I suddenly fall 
asleep, as one would throw oneself into a pool of 
stagnant water in order to drown oneself. I do 
not feel coming over me, as I used to do formerly, 
this perfidious sleep which is close to me and watch¬ 
ing me, which is going to seize me by the head, to 
close my eyes and annihilate me. 

I sleep—a long time—two or three hours perhaps 
—then a dream—no—a nightmare lays hold on me. 
I feel that I am in bed and asleep—I feel it and I 
know it—and I feel also that somebody is coming 
close to me, is looking at me, touching me, is getting 
on to my bed, is kneeling on my chest, is taking my 
neck between his hands and squeezing it—squeezing 
it with all his might in order to strangle me. 

I struggle, bound by that terrible powerlessness 
which paralyzes us in our dreams; I try to cry out 
—but I cannot; I want to move—I cannot; I try, 
with the most violent efforts and out of breath, to 
turn over and throw off this being which is crushing 
and suffocating me—I cannot! 

And then, suddenly, I wake up, shaken and 
bathed in perspiration; I light a candle and find that 
I am alone, and after that crisis, which occurs every 


THE HORLA 


215 


night, I at length fall asleep and slumber tranquilly 
till morning. 

June 2d. My state has grown worse. What is 
the matter with me? The bromide does me no 
good, and the shower-baths have no effect whatever. 
Sometimes, in order to tire myself out, though I am 
fatigued enough already, I go for a walk in the 
forest of Roumare. I used to think at first that the 
fresh light and soft air, impregnated with the odor 
of herbs and leaves, would instill new blood into my 
veins and impart fresh energy to my heart. I 
turned into a broad ride in the wood, and then I 
turned toward La Bouille, through a narrow path, 
between two rows of exceedingly tall trees, which 
placed a thick, green, almost black roof between the 
sky and me. 

A sudden shiver ran through me, not a cold 
shiver, but a shiver of agony, and so I hastened my 
steps, uneasy at being alone in the wood, frightened 
stupidly and without reason, at the profound soli¬ 
tude. Suddenly it seemed to me as if I were being 
followed, that somebody was walking at my heels, 
close, quite close to me, near enough to touch me. 

I turned round suddenly, but I was alone. I 
saw nothing behind me except the straight, broad 
ride, empty and bordered by high trees, horribly 
empty; on the other side it also extended until it 
was lost in the distance, and looked just the same, 
terrible. 

I closed my eyes. Why? And then I began to 
turn round on one heel very quickly, just like a top. 


216 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


I nearly fell down, and opened my eyes; the trees 
were dancing round me and the earth heaved; I was 
obliged to sit down. Then, ah! I no longer remem¬ 
bered how I had come! What a strange idea! 
What a strange, strange idea! I did not the least 
know. I started off to the right, and got back into 
the avenue which had led me into the middle of 
the forest. 

June 3d. I have had a terrible night. I shall go 
away for a few weeks, for no doubt a journey will 
set me up again. 

July 2d. I have come back, quite cured, and 
have had a most delightful trip into the bargain. 
I have been to Mont Saint-Michel, which I had not 
seen before. 

What a sight, when one arrives as I did, at Av- 
ranches toward the end of the day! The town 
stands on a hill, and I was taken into the public 
garden at the extremity of the town. I uttered a 
cry of astonishment. An extraordinary large bay 
lay extended before me, as far as my eyes could 
reach, between two hills which were lost to sight in 
the mist; and in the midddle of this immense yellow 
bay, under a clear, golden sky, a peculiar hill rose 
up, sombre and pointed in the midst of the sand. 
The sun had just disappeared, and under the still 
flaming sky the outline of that fantastic rock stood 
out, which bears on its summit a fantastic monu¬ 
ment. 

At daybreak I went to it. The tide was low as it 
had been the night before, and I saw that wonderful 


TIIE HORLA 


217 


abbey rise up before me as I approached it. After 
several hours’ walking, I reached the enormous mass 
of rocks which supports the little town, dominated 
by the great church. Having climbed the steep 
and narrow street, I entered the most wonderful 
Gothic building that has ever been built to God on 
earth, as large as a town, full of low rooms which 
seem buried beneath vaulted roofs, and lofty gal¬ 
leries supported by delicate columns. 

I entered this gigantic granite jewel which is as 
light as a bit of lace, covered with towers, with 
slender belfries to which spiral staircases ascend, 
and which raise their strange heads that bristle 
with chimeras, with devils, with fantastic animals, 
with monstrous flowers, and which are joined to¬ 
gether by finely carved arches, to the blue sky by 
day, and to the black sky by night. 

When I had reached the summit, I said to the 
monk who accompanied me: “Father, how happy 
you must be here!” And he replied: “It is very 
windy, Monsieur”; and so we began to talk while 
watching the rising tide, which ran over the sand and 
covered it with a steel cuirass. 

And then the monk'told me stories, all the old 
stories belonging to the place, legends, nothing but 
legends. 

One of them struck me forcibly. The country 
people, those belonging to the Mornet, declare that 
at night one can hear talking going on in the sand, 
and then that one hears two goats bleat, one with a 
strong, the other with a weak voice. Incredulous 


218 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


people declare that it is nothing but the cry of the 
sea birds, which occasionally resembles bleatings, 
'and occasionally human lamentations; but belated 
fishermen swear that they have met an old shepherd, 
whose head, which is covered by his cloak, they can 
never see, wandering on the downs, between two 
tides, round the little town placed so far out of the 
world, and who is guiding and walking before them, 
a he-goat with a man’s face, and a she-goat with a 
woman’s face, and both of them with white hair; 
and talking incessantly, quarrelling in a strange 
language, and then suddenly ceasing to talk in order 
to bleat with all their might. 

“Do you believe it?” I asked the monk. “I 
scarcely know,” he replied, and I continued: “If 
there are other beings besides ourselves on this 
earth, how comes it that we have not known it for 
so long a time, or why have you not seen them? 
How is it that I have not seen them?” He replied: 
“Do we see the hundred thousandth part of what 
exists? Look here; there is the wind, which is the 
strongest force in nature, which knocks down men, 
and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the 
sea into mountains of water; destroys cliffs and casts 
great ships onto the breakers; the wind which kills, 
which whistles, which sighs, which roars—have you 
ever seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all 
that, however.” 

I was silent before this simple reasoning. The 
man was a philosopher, or perhaps a fool; I could 


THE HORLA 


219 


not say which exactly, so I held my tongue. What 
he had said, had often been in my own thoughts. 

July 3d. I have slept badly; certainly there is 
some feverish influence here, for my coachman is 
suffering in the same way as I am. When I went 
back home yesterday, I noticed his singular paleness, 
and I asked him: “What is the matter with you, 
Jean?” “The matter is that I never get any 
rest, and my nights devour my days. Since your de¬ 
parture, monsieur, there has been a spell over me.” 

However, the other servants are all well, but I am 
very frightened of having another attack, myself. 

July 4th. I am decidely taken again; for my old 
nightmares have returned. Last night I felt some¬ 
body leaning on me who was sucking my life from 
between my lips with his mouth. Yes, he was 
sucking it out of my neck, like a leech would have 
done. Then he got up, satiated, and I woke up, so 
beaten, crushed and annihilated that I could not 
move. If this continues for a few days, I shall 
certainly go away again. 

July 3th. Have I lost my reason? What has 
happened? What I saw last night is so strange that 
my head wanders when I think of it! 

As I do now every evening, I had locked my door, 
and then, being thirsty, I drank half a glass of water, 
and I accidentally noticed that the water bottle was 
full up to the cut-glass stopper. 

Then I went to bed and fell into one of my terrible 
sleeps, from which I was aroused in about two hours 
by a still more terrible shock. 


220 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Picture to yourself a sleeping man who is being 
murdered and who wakes up with a knife in his 
chest, and who is rattling in his throat, covered 
with blood, and who can no longer breathe, and is 
going to die, and does not understand anything at 
all about it—there it is. 

Having recovered my senses, I was thirsty again, 
so I lit a candle and went to the table on which my 
water bottle was. I lifted it up and tilted it over my 
glass, but nothing came out. It was empty! It 
was completely empty! At first I could not under¬ 
stand it at all, and then suddenly I was seized by 
such a terrible feeling that I had to sit down, or 
rather I fell into a chair! Then I sprang up with a 
bound to look about me, and then I sat down again, 
overcome by astonishment and fear, in front of the 
transparent crystal bottle! I looked at it with 
fixed eyes, trying to conjecture, and my hands 
trembled! Somebody had drunk the water, but 
who? I? I without any doubt. It could surely 
only be I? In that case I was a somnambulist, I 
lived, without knowing it, that double mysterious 
life which makes us doubt whether there are not two 
beings in us, or whether a strange, unknowable and 
invisible being does not at such moments, when our 
soul is in a state of torpor, animate our captive 
body which obeys this other being, as it does us 
ourselves, and more than it does ourselves. 

Oh! Who will understand my horrible agony? 
Who will understand the emotion of a man who is 
sound in mind, wide awake, full of sound sense, and 


THE HORLA 


221 


who looks in horror at the remains of a little water 
that has disappeared while he was asleep, through 
the glass of a water bottle? And I remained there 
until it was daylight, without venturing to go to bed 
again. 

July 6th. I am going mad. Again all the con¬ 
tents of my water bottle have been drunk during 
the night—or rather, I have drunk it! 

But is it I? Is it I? Who could it be? Who? 
Oh! God! Am I going mad? Who will save me? 

July ioth. I have just been through some sur¬ 
prising ordeals. Decidedly I am mad! And yet!— 

On July 6th, before going to bed, I put some 
wine, milk, water, bread and strawberries on my 
table. Somebody drank—I drank—all the water 
and a little of the milk, but neither the wine, bread 
nor the strawberries were touched. 

On the seventh of July I renewed the same experi¬ 
ment, with the same results, and on July 8th, I left 
out th& water and the milk and nothing was touched. 

Lastly, on July 9th I put only water and milk on 
my table, taking care to wrap up the bottles in 
white muslin and to tie down the stoppers. Then 
I rubbed my lips, my beard and my hands with 
pencil lead, and went to bed. 

Irresistible sleep seized me, which was soon fol¬ 
lowed by a terrible awakening. I had not moved, 
and my sheets were not marked. I rushed to the 
table. The muslin round the bottles remained 
intact; I undid the string, trembling with fear. 


222 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


All the water had been drunk, and so had the milk! 
Ah! Great God!— 

I must start for Paris immediately. 

July 12th. Paris. I must have lost my head 
during the last few days! I must be the plaything 
of my enervated imagination, unless I am really a 
somnambulist, or that I have been brought under 
the power of one of those influences which have 
been proved to exist, but which have hitherto been 
inexplicable, which are called suggestions. In any 
case, my mental state bordered on madness, and 
twenty-four hours of Paris sufficed to restore me to 
my equilibrium. 

Yesterday after doing some business and paying 
some visits which instilled fresh and invigorating 
mental air into me, I wound up my evening at the 
Theatre Frangais . A play by Alexandre Dumas 
the Younger was being acted, and his active and 
powerful mind completed my cure. Certainly 
solitude is dangerous for active minds. We require 
men who can think and can talk, around us. When 
we are alone for a long time we people space with 
phantoms. 

I returned along the boulevards to my hotel in 
excellent spirits. Amid the jostling of the crowd I 
thought, not without irony, of my terrors and sur¬ 
mises of the previous week, because I believed, yes, 
I believed, that an invisible being lived beneath my 
roof. How weak our head is, and how quickly it is 
terrified and goes astray, as soon as we are struck 
by a small, incomprehensible fact. 


THE HORLA 


223 


Instead of concluding with these simple words: 
“I do not understand because the cause escapes me,” 
we immediately imagine terrible mysteries and 
supernatural powers. 

July 14th. Fete of the Republic. I walked 
through the streets, and the crackers and flags 
amused me like a child. Still it is very foolish to 
be merry on a fixed date, by a Government decree. 
The populace is an imbecile flock of sheep, now 
steadily patient, and now in ferocious revolt. Say 
to it: “Amuse yourself,” and it amuses itself.. 
Say to it: “Go and fight with your neighbor,” 
and it goes and fights. Say to it: “Vote for the 
Emperor,” and it votes for the Emperor, and then 
say to it: “Vote for the Republic,” and it votes for 
the Republic. 

Those who direct it are also stupid; but instead of 
obeying men they obey principles, which can only 
be stupid, sterile, and false, for the very reason that 
they are principles, that is to say, ideas which are 
considered as certain and unchangeable, in this 
world where one is certain of nothing, since light is 
an illusion and noise is an illusion. 

July 16th. I saw some things yesterday that 
troubled me very much. 

I was dining at my cousin’s Madame Sable, whose 
husband is colonel of the 76th Chasseurs at Limoges. 
There were two young women there, one of whom 
had married a medical man, Dr. Parent, who de¬ 
votes himself a great deal to nervous diseases and 
the extraordinary manifestations to which at this 


224 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


moment experiments in hypnotism and suggestion 
give rise. 

He related to us at some length, the enormous 
results obtained by English scientists and the 
doctors of the medical school at Nancy, and the facts 
which he adduced appeared to me so strange, that 
I declared that I was altogether incredulous. 

“We are,” he declared, “on the point of dis¬ 
covering one of the most important secrets of nature, 
I mean to say, one of its most important secrets on 
this earth, for there are certainly some which are of 
a different kind of importance up in the stars, yonder. 
Ever since man has thought, since he has been able 
to express and write down his thoughts, he has felt 
himself close to a mystery which is impenetrable 
to his coarse and imperfect senses, and he endeavors 
to supplement the want of power of his organs by 
the efforts of his intellect. As long as that intellect 
still remained in its elementary stage, this inter¬ 
course with invisible spirits assumed forms which 
were commonplace though terrifying. Thence 
sprang the popular belief in the supernatural, the 
legends of wandering spirits, of fairies, of gnomes, 
ghosts, I might even say the legend of God, for our 
conceptions of the workman-creator, from whatever 
religion they may have come down to us, are cer¬ 
tainly the most mediocre, the stupidest and the most 
unacceptable inventions that ever sprang from the 
frightened brain of any human creatures. Nothing 
is truer than what Voltaire says: ‘God made man 


THE HORLA 


225 


in His own image, but man has certainly paid Him 
back again.’ 

“But for rather more than a century, men seem to 
have had a presentiment of something new. Mes- 
mer and some others have put us on an unexpected 
track, and especially within the last two or three 
years, we have arrived at really surprising results.” 

My cousin, who is also very incredulous, smiled, 
and Dr. Parent said to her: “Would you like me 
to try and send you to sleep, Madame?” “Yes, 
certainly.” 

She sat down in an easy-chair, and he began to 
look at her fixedly, so as to fascinate her. I sud¬ 
denly felt myself somewhat uncomfortable, with a 
beating heart and a choking feeling in my throat. 
I saw that Madame Sable’s eyes were growing 
heavy, her mouth twitched and her bosom heaved, 
and at the end of ten minutes she was asleep. 

“Stand behind her,” the doctor said to me, and so 
I took a seat behind her. He put a visiting card 
into her hands, and said to her: “This is a looking- 
glass; what do you see in it?” And she replied: 
“I see my cousin.” “What is he doing?” “He is 
twisting his moustache.” “And now?” “He is 
taking a photograph out of his pocket.” “Whose 
photograph is it?” “His own.” 

That was true, and that photograph had been 
given me that same evening at the hotel. 

“What is his attitude in this portrait?” “He is 
standing up with his hat in his hand.” 


226 FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 

So she saw on that card, on that piece of white 
pasteboard, as if she had seen it in a looking-glass. 

The young women were frightened, and ex¬ 
claimed: “That is quite enough! Quite, quite 
enough!” 

But the doctor said to her authoritatively: “You 
will get up at eight o’clock to-morrow morning; then 
you will go and call on your cousin at his hotel and 
ask him to lend you five thousand francs which 
your husband demands of you, and which he will 
ask for when he sets out on his coming journey.” 

Then he woke her up. 

On returning to my hotel, I thought over this 
curious seance and I was assailed by doubts, not as 
to my cousin’s absolute and undoubted good faith, 
for I had known her as well as if she had been my 
own sister ever since she was a child, but as to a 
possible trick on the doctor’s part. Had not he, 
perhaps, kept a glass hidden in his hand, which he 
showed to the young woman in her sleep, at the 
same time as he did the card? Professional con¬ 
jurers do things which are just as singular. 

So I went home and to bed, and this morning, at 
about half past eight, I was awakened by my foot¬ 
man, who said to me: “Madame Sable has asked to 
see you immediately, Monsieur,” so I dressed 
hastily and went to her. 

She sat down in some agitation, with her eyes on 
the floor, and without raising her veil she said to 
me: “My dear cousin, I am going to ask a great 
favor of you.” “What is it, cousin?” “I do not 


THE HORLA 


227 


like to tell you, and yet I must. I am in absolute 
want of five thousand francs.” “What, you?” 
“Yes, I, or rather my husband, who has asked me to 
procure them for him.” 

I was so stupefied that I stammered out my an¬ 
swers. I asked myself whether she had not really 
been making fun of me with Doctor Parent, if it 
were not merely a very well-acted farce which had 
been got up beforehand. On looking at her atten¬ 
tively, however, my doubts disappeared. She was 
trembling with grief, so painful was this step to her, 
and I was sure that her throat was full of sobs. 

I knew that she was very rich and so I continued: 
“What! Has not your husband five thousand 
francs at his disposal! Come, think. Are you sure 
that he commissioned you to ask me for them?” 

She hesitated for a few seconds, as if she were 
making a great effort to search her memory, and 
then she replied: “Yes . . . yes, I am quite sure 
of it.” “He has written to you?” 

She hesitated again and reflected, and I guessed 
the torture of her thoughts. She did not know. She 
only knew that she was to borrow five thousand 
francs of me for her husband. So she told a lie. 
“Yes, he has written to me.” “When, pray? You 
did not mention it to me yesterday.” “I received 
his letter this morning.” “Can you show it me?” 
“No; no ... no ... it contained private mat¬ 
ters . . . things too personal to ourselves. ... I 
burnt it.” “So your husband runs into debt?” 

She hesitated again, and then murmured: “I do 


228 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


not know.” Thereupon I said bluntly: “I have 
not five thousand francs at my disposal at this mo¬ 
ment, my dear cousin.” 

She uttered a kind of cry as if she were in pain 
and said: “Oh! oh! I beseech you, I beseech you 
to get them for me . . 

She got excited and clasped her hands as if she 
were praying to me! I heard her voice change its 
tone; she wept and stammered, harassed and domi¬ 
nated by the irresistible order that she had received. 

“Oh! oh! I beg you to ... if you knew what I 
am suffering. ... I want them to-day.” 

I had pity on her: “You shall have them by and 
by, 1 swear to you.” “Oh! thank you! thank you! 
How kind you are!” 

I continued: “Do you remember what took place 
at your house last night?” “Yes.” “Do you re¬ 
member that Doctor Parent sent you to sleep?” 
“Yes.” “Oh! Very well then; he ordered you to 
come to me this morning to borrow five thousand 
francs, and at this moment you are obeying that 
suggestion.” 

She considered for a few moments, and then 
replied: “But as it is my husband who wants 
them . . 

For a whole hour I tried to convince her, but 
could not succeed, and when she had gone I went to 
the doctor. He was just going out, and he listened 
to me with a smile, and said: “Do you believe 


TIIE IiORLA 229 

now?” u Yes, I cannot help it.” “Let us go to your 
cousin’s.” 

She was already dozing on a couch, overcome with 
fatigue. The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her for 
some time with one hand raised toward her eyes 
which she closed by degrees under the irresistible 
power of this influence, and when she was asleep, he 
said: 

“Your husband does not require the five thousand 
francs any longer! You must, therefore, forget that 
you asked your cousin to lend them to you, and, if 
he speaks to you about it, you will not understand 
him.” 

Then he woke her up, and I took out a pocketbook 
and said: “Here is what you asked me for this 
morning, my dear cousin.” But she was so sur¬ 
prised that I did not venture to persist; nevertheless, 
I tried to recall the circumstance to her, but she 
denied it vigorously, thought that I was making fun 
of her, and in the end very nearly lost her temper. 

There! I have just come back, and I have not 
been able to eat my lunch, for this experiment has 
altogether upset me. 

July igth. Many people to whom I have told the 
adventure have laughed at me. I no longer know 
what to think. The wise man says: Perhaps? 

July 21st. I dined at Bougival, and then I spent 
the evening at a boatmen’s ball. Decidedly every¬ 
thing depends on place and surroundings. It would 


230 FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 

be the height of folly to believe in the supernatural 
on the lie de la Grenouilliere 1 . . . but on the top 
of Mont Saint-Michel? . . . and in India? We are 
terribly under the influence of our surroundings. I 
shall return home next week. 

July 30th. I came back to my own house yester¬ 
day. Everything is going on well. 

August 2d. Nothing fresh; it is splendid weather, 
and I spend my days in watching the Seine flow past. 

August 4th. Quarrels among my servants. They 
declare that the glasses are broken in the cupboards 
at night. The footman accuses the cook, who ac¬ 
cuses the needlewoman, who accuses the other two. 
Who is the culprit? A clever person, to be able to 
tell. 

August 6th . This time I am not mad. I have 
seen ... I have seen ... I have seen! ... I can 
doubt no longer ... I have seen it! . . . 

I was walking at two o’clock among my rose trees, 
in the full sunlight ... in the walk bordered by 
autumn roses which are beginning to fall. As I 
stopped to look at a Geant de Bataille, which had 
three splendid blooms, I distinctly saw the stalks of 
one of the roses bend, close to me, as if an invisible 
hand had bent it, and then break, as if that hand had 
picked it! Then the flower raised itself, following 
the curve a hand would have described in carry¬ 
ing it toward the mouth, and it remained suspended 
in the transparent air, all alone and motionless, a 


Frog Island. 



TIIE HORLA 


231 


terrible red spot, three yards from my eyes. In des¬ 
peration I rushed at it to take it! I found nothing; 
it had disappeared. Then I was seized with furious 
rage against myself, for it is not allowable for a 
reasonable and serious man to have such hallucina¬ 
tions. 

But what is an hallucination? I turned round to 
look for the stalk, and I found it immediately under 
the bush, freshly broken, between two other roses 
which remained on the branch, and I returned home 
then, with a much disturbed mind; for I am certain 
now, as certain as I am of the alternation of day 
and night, that there exists close to me an invisible 
being that lives on milk and on water, which can 
touch objects, take them and change their places; 
which is, consequently, endowed with a material na¬ 
ture, although it is impossible to our senses, and 
which lives as I do, under my roof. . . . 

August 7th. I slept tranquilly. He drank the 
water out of my decanter, but did not disturb my 
sleep. 

I ask myself whether I am mad. As I was walk¬ 
ing just now in the sun by the riverside, doubts as 
to my own sanity arose in me; not vague doubts such 
as I have had hitherto, but precise and absolute 
doubts. I have seen mad people, and I have known 
some who have been quite intelligent, lucid, even 
clear-sighted in every concern of life, except on one 
point. They spoke clearly, readily, profoundly, on 
everything, when suddenly their thoughts struck upon 
the breakers of their madness and broke to pieces 


232 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


there, and were dispersed and foundered in that furi¬ 
ous and terrible sea, full of bounding waves, fogs and 
squalls, which is called madness. 

I certainly should think that I was mad, absolutely 
mad, if I were not conscious, did not perfectly know 
my state, if I did fathom it by analyzing it with the 
most complete lucidity. I should, in fact, be a reas¬ 
onable man who was laboring under an hallucination. 
Some unknown disturbance must have been excited in 
my brain, one of those disturbances which physiolo¬ 
gists of the present day try to note and fix precisely, 
and that disturbance must have caused a profound 
gulf in my mind and in the order and logic of my 
ideas. Similar phenomena occur in the dreams 
which lead us through the most unlikely phantas¬ 
magoria, without causing us any surprise, because 
our verifying apparatus and our sense of control 
have gone to sleep, while our imaginative faculty 
wakes and works. Is it not possible that one of the 
imperceptible keys of the cerebral finger-board has 
been paralyzed in me? Some men lose the recollec¬ 
tion of proper names, or of verbs, or of numbers, or 
merely of dates, in consequence of the accident. The 
localization of all the particles of thought have been 
proved nowadays; what then would there be surpris¬ 
ing in the fact that my faculty controlling the un¬ 
certain reality of my hallucinations should be de¬ 
stroyed for the time being! 

I thought of all this as I walked by the side of 
the water. The sun was shining brightly on the river 
and made earth delightful, while it filled my looks 


THE HORLA 


233 


with love for life, for the swallows, whose agility 
is always delightful in my eyes, for the plants by the 
riverside, whose rustling is a pleasure to my ears. 

By degrees, however, an inexplicable feeling of 
discomfort seized me. It seemed to me as if some 
unknown force were numbing and stopping me, were 
preventing me from going farther and were calling 
me back. I felt that painful wish to return which op¬ 
presses you when you have left a beloved invalid at 
home, and when you are seized by a presentiment 
that he is worse. 

I, therefore, returned in spite of myself, feeling 
certain that I should find some bad news awaiting 
me, a letter or a telegram. There was nothing, how¬ 
ever, and I was more surprised and uneasy than if 
I had had another fantastic vision. 

August 8th. I spent a terrible evening yesterday. 
He does not show himself any more, but I feel that 
he is near me, watching me, looking at me, penetrat¬ 
ing me, dominating me, and more redoubtable when 
he hides himself thus than if he were to manifest his 
constant and invisible presence by supernatural phe¬ 
nomena. However, I slept. 

August gth. Nothing; but I am afraid. 

August ioth . Nothing; what will happen tomor¬ 
row? 

August nth. Still nothing; I cannot stop at home 
with this fear hanging over me and these thoughts 
in my mind; I shall go away. 

August 12th. Ten o’clock at night. All day long 
I have been trying to get away, and have not been 


234 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


able. I wished to accomplish this simple and easy act 
of liberty—go out—get into my carriage in order 
to go to Rouen—and I have not been able to do it. 
What is the reason? 

August 13th. When one is attacked by certain 
maladies, all the springs of our physical being appear 
to be broken, all our energies destroyed, all our 
muscles relaxed, our bones to have become as soft 
as our flesh, and our blood as liquid as water. I am 
experiencing that in my moral being in a strange and 
distressing manner. I have no longer any strength, 
any courage, any self-control, nor even any power to 
set my own will in motion. I have no power left to 
will anything, but someone does it for me and I obey. 

August 14th. I am lost! Somebody possesses my 
soul and governs it! Somebody orders all my acts, 
all my movements, all my thoughts. I am no longer 
anything in myself, nothing except an enslaved and 
terrified spectator of all the things which I do. I 
wish to go out; I cannot. He does not wish to, and 
so I remain, trembling and distracted, in the arm¬ 
chair in which he keeps me sitting. I merely wish 
to get up and to rouse myself, so as to think that I 
am still master of myself: I cannot! I am riveted 
to my chair, and my chair adheres to the ground in 
such a manner that no force could move us. 

Then suddenly, I must, I must go to the bottom of 
my garden to pick some strawberries and eat them, 
and I go there. I pick the strawberries and I eat 
them! Oh! my God! my God! Is there a God? If 
there be one, deliver me! save me! succor me! Par- 


THE HORLA 


235 


don! Pity! Mercy! Save me! Oh! what suffer¬ 
ings! what torture! what horror! 

August 15th . Certainly this is the way in which 
my poor cousin was possessed and swayed, when she 
came to borrow five thousand francs of me. She 
was under the power of a strange will which had en¬ 
tered into her, like another soul, like another para¬ 
sitic and ruling soul. Is the world coming to an end? 

But who is he, this invisible being that rules me? 
This unknowable being, this rover of a supernatural 
race? 

Invisible beings exist, then! How is it then that 
since the beginning of the world they have never 
manifested themselves in such a manner precisely 
as they do to me? I have never read anything 
which resembles what goes on in my house. Oh! 
If I could only leave it, if I could only go away and 
flee, so as never to return, I should be saved; but I 
cannot. 

August 16th. I managed to escape to-day for two 
hours, like a prisoner who finds the door of his dun¬ 
geon accidentally open. I suddenly felt that I was 
free and that he was far away, and so I gave orders 
to put the horses in as quickly as possible, and I 
drove to Rouen. Oh! How delightful to be able to 
say to a man who obeyed you: “Go to Rouen!” 

I made him pull up before the library, and I 
begged them to lend me Dr. Herrmann Herestauss’s 
treatise on the unknown inhabitants of the ancient 
and modern world. 

Then, as I was getting into my carriage, I in- 


236 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


tended to say: “To the railway station!” but in¬ 
stead of this I shouted—I did not say, but I shouted 
—in such a loud voice that all the passers-by turned 
round: “Home!” and I fell back onto the cushion 
of my carriage, overcome by mental agony. He had 
found me out and regained possession of me. 

August iyth. Oh! What a night! what a night I 
And yet it seems to me that I ought to rejoice. I 
read until one o’clock in the morning! Herestauss, 
Doctor of Philosophy and Theogony, wrote the his¬ 
tory and the manifestation of all those invisible 
beings which hover around man, or of whom he 
dreams. He describes their origin, their domains, 
their power; but none of them resembles the one 
which haunts me. One might say that man, ever 
since he has thought, has had a foreboding of, and 
feared a new being, stronger than himself, his suc¬ 
cessor in this world, and that, feeling him near, and 
not being able to foretell the nature of that master, 
he has, in his terror, created the whole race of hidden 
beings, of vague phantoms born of fear. 

Having, therefore, read until one o’clock in the 
morning, I went and sat down at the open window, 
in order to cool my forehead and my thoughts, in 
the calm night air. It was very pleasant and warm! 
How I should have enjoyed such a night formerly! 

There was no moon, but the stars darted out their 
rays in the dark heavens. Who inhabits those 
worlds? What forms, what living beings, what 
animals are there yonder? What do those who are 
thinkers in those distant worlds know more than we 


THE IIORLA 


237 


do? What can they do more than we can? What 
do they see which we do not know? Will not one of 
them, some day or other, traversing space, appear 
on our earth to conquer it, just as the Norsemen 
formerly crossed the sea in order to subjugate na¬ 
tions more feeble than themselves? 

We are so weak, so unarmed, so ignorant, so 
small, we who live on this particle of mud which 
turns round in a drop of water. 

I fell asleep, dreaming this in the cool night air, 
and then, having slept for about three quarters of an 
hour, I opened my eyes without moving, awakened 
by I know not what confused and strange sensation. 
At first I saw nothing, and then suddenly it appeared 
to me as if a page of a book which had remained 
open on my table, turned over of its own accord. 
Not a breath of air had come in at my window, and 
I was surprised and waited. In about four minutes, 
I saw, I saw, yes I saw with my own eyes another 
page lift itself up and fall down on the others, as 
if a finger had turned it over. My armchair was 
empty, appeared empty, but I knew that he was 
there, he, and sitting in my place, and that he was 
reading. With a furious bound, the bound of an 
enraged wild beast that wishes to disembowel its 
tamer, I crossed my room to seize him, to strangle 
him, to kill him! . . . But before I could reach it, 
my chair fell over as if somebody had run away 
from me ... my table rocked, my lamp fell and 
went out, and my window closed as if some thief had 


238 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


been surprised and had fled out into the night, shut¬ 
ting it behind him. 

So he had run away: he had been afraid; he, 
afraid of me! 

So . . . so . . . to-morrow ... or later . . . 
some day or other ... I should be able to hold 
him in my clutches and crush him against the ground! 
Do not dogs occasionally bite and strangle their 
masters? 

August 18th. I have been thinking the whole day 
long. Oh! yes, I will obey him, follow his impulses, 
fulfill all his wishes, show myself humble, submis¬ 
sive, a coward. He is the stronger; but an hour 
will come . . . 

August igth. I know, . . . I know . . . I know 
all! I have just read the following in the Revue de 
Monde Scientifique: “A curious piece of news comes 
to us from Rio de Janeiro. Madness, an epidemic 
of madness, which may be compared to that con¬ 
tagious madness which attacked the people of 
Europe in the Middle Ages, is at this moment rag¬ 
ing in the Province of San-Paulo. The frightened 
inhabitants are leaving their houses, deserting their 
villages, abandoning their land, saying that they are 
pursued, possessed, governed like human cattle by 
invisible, though tangible beings, a species of vam¬ 
pire, which feed on their life while they are asleep, 
and who, besides, drink water and milk without ap¬ 
pearing to touch any other nourishment. 

“Professor Dom Pedro Henriques, accompanied 
by several medical savants, has gone to the Province 


THE HORLA 


239 


of San-Paulo, in order to study the origin and the 
manifestations of this surprising madness on the 
spot, and to propose such measures to the Emperor 
as may appear to him to be most fitted to restore the 
mad population to reason.” 

Ah! Ah! I remember now that fine Brazilian 
three-master which passed in front of my windows 
as it was going up the Seine, on the 8th of last May! 
I thought it looked so pretty, so white and bright! 
That Being was on board of her, coming from there, 
where its race sprang from. And it saw me! It saw 
my house which was also white, and it sprang from 
the ship onto the land. Oh! Good heavens! 

Now I know, I can divine. The reign of man is 
over, and he has come. He whom disquieted priests 
exorcised, whom sorcerers evoked on dark nights, 
without yet seeing him appear, to whom the pre¬ 
sentiments of the transient masters of the world 
lent all the monstrous or graceful forms of gnomes, 
spirits, genii, fairies, and familiar spirits. After the 
coarse conceptions of primitive fear, more clear¬ 
sighted men foresaw it more clearly. Mesmer di¬ 
vined him, and ten years ago physicians accurately 
discovered the nature of his power, even before he 
exercised it himself. They played with that weapon 
of their new Lord, the sway of a mysterious will 
over the human soul, which had become enslaved. 
They called it magnetism, hypnotism, suggestion 
. . . what do I know? I have seen them amusing 
themselves like impudent children with this horrible 
power! Woe to us! Woe to man! He has come, 


240 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


the ... the .. . what does he call himself . . . 
the ... I fancy that he is shouting out his name to 
me and I do not hear him . . . the . . . yes . . . 
he is shouting it out ... I am listening ... I 
cannot . . . repeat . . . it . . . Horla ... I have 
heard . . . the Horla ... it is he .. . the Horla 
... he has come! . . . 

Ah! the vulture has eaten the pigeon, the wolf has 
eaten the lamb; the lion has devoured the buffalo 
with sharp horns; man has killed the lion with an 
arrow, with a sword, with gunpowder; but the Horla 
will make of man what we have made of the horse 
and of the ox: his chattel, his slave and his food, by 
the mere power of his will. Woe to us! 

But, nevertheless, the animal sometimes revolts 
and kills the man who has subjugated it. ... I 
should also like ... I shall be able to . . . but I 
must know him, touch him, see him! Learned men 
say that beasts’ eyes, as they differ from ours, do 
not distinguish like ours do. . . And my eye can¬ 
not distinguish this newcomer who is oppressing me. 

Why? Oh! Now I remember the words of the 
monk at Mont Saint-Michel: “Can we see the hun¬ 
dred-thousandth part of what exists? Look here; 
there is the wind which is the strongest force in 
nature, which knocks down men, and blows down 
buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into moun¬ 
tains of water, destroys cliffs and casts great ships 
onto the breakers; the wind which kills, which 
whistles, which sighs, which roars—have you ever 


THE HORLA 


241 


seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all that, 
however!” 

And I went on thinking: my eyes are so weak, so 
imperfect, that they do not even distinguish hard 
bodies, if they are as transparent as glass! ... If a 
glass without tinfoil behind it were to bar my way, 
I should run into it, just as a bird which has flown 
into a room breaks its head against the window 
panes. A thousand things, moreover, deceive him 
and lead him astray. How should it then be sur¬ 
prising that he cannot perceive a fresh body which is 
traversed by the light? 

A new being! Why not? It was assuredly bound 
to come! Why should we be the last? We do not 
distinguish it, like all the others created before us. 
The reason is, that its nature is more perfect, its 
body finer and more finished than ours, that ours is 
so weak, so awkwardly conceived, encumbered with 
organs that are always tired, always on the strain 
like locks that are too complicated, which lives like 
a plant and like a beast, nourishing itself with dif¬ 
ficulty on air, herbs and flesh, an animal machine 
which is a prey to maladies, to malformations, to 
decay; broken-winded, badly regulated, simple and 
eccentric, ingeniously and badly made, a coarse and 
a delicate work, the outline of a being which might 
become intelligent and grand. 

We are only a few, so few in this world, from the 
oyster up to man. Why should there not be one 
more, when once that period is accomplished which 


242 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


separates the successive apparitions from all the 
different species? 

Why not one more? Why not, also, other trees 
with immense, splendid flowers, perfuming whole 
regions? Why not other elements besides fire, air, 
earth and water? There are four, only four, those 
nursing fathers of various beings! What a pity! 
Why are they not forty, four hundred, four thou¬ 
sand! How poor everything is, how mean and 
wretched! grudgingly given, dryly invented, clum¬ 
sily made! Ah! the elephant and the hippopotamus, 
what grace! And the camel, what elegance! 

But, the butterfly you will say, a flying flower! I 
dream of one that should be as large as a hundred 
worlds, with wings whose shape, beauty, colors, and 
motion I cannot even express. But I see it ... it 
flutters from star to star, refreshing them and per¬ 
fuming them with the light and harmonious breath 
of its flight! . . . And the people up there look at 
it as it passes in an ecstasy of delight! . . . 

What is the matter with me? It is he, the Horla 
who haunts me, and who makes me think of these 
foolish things! He is within me, he is becoming my 
soul; I shall kill him! 

August igth. I shall kill him. I have seen 
him! Yesterday I sat down at my table and 
pretended to write very assiduously. I knew quite 
well that he would come prowling round me, quite 
close to me, so close that I might perhaps be able to 
touch him, to seize him. And then! . . . then I 
should have the strength of desperation; I should 


THE HORLA 


243 


have my hands, my knees, my chest, my forehead, 
my teeth to strangle him, to crush him, to bite him, 
to tear him to pieces. And I watched for him with 
all my over-excited organs. 

I had lighted my two lamps and the eight wax 
candles on my mantelpiece, as if by this light I could 
have discovered him. 

My bed, my old oak bed with its columns, was 
opposite to me; on my right was the fireplace; on 
my left the door which was carefully closed, after 
I had left it open for some time, in order to attract 
him; behind me was a very high wardrobe with a 
looking-glass in it, which served me to make my 
toilet every day, and in which I was in the habit of 
looking at myself from head to foot every time I 
passed it. 

So I pretended to be writing in order to deceive 
him, for he also was watching me, and suddenly I 
felt, I was certain that he was reading over my 
shoulder, that he was there, almost touching my ear. 

I got up so quickly, with my hands extended, 
that I almost fell. Eh! well? ... It was as bright 
as at midday, but I did not see myself in the glass! 
. . . It was empty, clear, profound, full of light! 
But my figure was not reflected in it . . . and I, I 
was opposite to it! I saw the large, clear glass from 
top to bottom, and I looked at it with unsteady 
eyes; and I did not dare to advance; I did not ven¬ 
ture to make a movement, nevertheless, feeling 
perfectly that he was there, but that he would escape 


244 


PAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


me again, he whose imperceptible body had absorbed 
my reflection. 

How frightened I was! And then suddenly I 
began to see myself through a mist in the depths of 
the looking-glass, in a mist as it were through a sheet 
of water; and it seemed to me as if this water were 
flowing slowly from left to right, and making my 
figure clearer every moment. It was like the end of 
an eclipse. Whatever it was that hid me, did not 
appear to possess any clearly defined outlines, but a 
sort of opaque transparency, which gradually grew 
clearer. 

At last I was able to distinguish myself com¬ 
pletely, as I do every day when I looked at myself. 

I had seen it! And the horror of it remained with 
me and makes me shudder even now. 

August 20 th. How could I kill it, as I could not 
get hold of it? Poison? But it would see me mix 
it with the water; and then, would our poisons have 
any effect on its impalpable body? No ... no 
... no doubt about the matter. . . . Then? . . . 
then? . . . 

August 21st. I sent for a blacksmith from 
Rouen, and ordered iron shutters of him for my 
room, such as some private hotels in Paris have on 
the ground floor, for fear of thieves, and he is going 
to make me a similar door as well. I have made 
myself out as a coward, but I do not care about 
that! . . . 

September ioth. Rouen, Hotel Continental. It 


THE HORLA 245 

is done; ... it is done . . . but is he dead? My 
mind is thoroughly upset by what I have seen. 

Well, then, yesterday the locksmith having put 
on the iron shutters and door, I left everything open 
until midnight, although it was getting cold. 

Suddenly I felt that he was there, and joy, mad 
joy, took possession of me. I got up softly, and I 
walked to the right and left for some time, so that 
he might not guess anything; then I took off my 
boots and put on my slippers carelessly; then I 
fastened the iron shutters and going back to the 
door quickly I double-locked it with a padlock, 
putting the key into my pocket. 

Suddenly I noticed that he was moving restlessly 
round me, that in his turn he was frightened and 
was ordering me to let him out. I nearly yielded, 
though I did not yet, but putting my back to the 
door I half opened it, just enough to allow me to go 
out backward, and as I am very tall, my head 
touched the lintel. I was sure that he had not 
been able to escape, and I shut him up quite alone, 
quite alone. What happiness! I had him fast. 
Then I ran downstairs; in the drawing-room, which 
was under my bedroom, I took the two lamps and 
I poured all the oil onto the carpet, the furniture, 
everywhere; then I set fire to it and made my escape, 
after having carefully double-locked the door. 

I went and hid myself at the bottom of the garden 
in a clump of laurel bushes. How long it was! 
how long it was! Everything was dark, silent, 
motionless, not a breath of air and not a star, but 


246 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


heavy banks of clouds which one could not see, but 
which weighed, oh! so heavily on my soul. 

I looked at my house and waited. How long it 
was! I already began to think that the fire had 
gone out of its own accord, or that he had extin¬ 
guished it, when one of the lower windows gave way 
under the violence of the flames, and a long, soft, 
caressing sheet of red flame mounted up the white 
wall and kissed it as high as the roof. The light 
fell onto the trees, the branches, and the leaves, 
and a shiver of fear pervaded them also! The birds 
awoke; a dog began to howl, and it seemed to me as 
if the day were breaking! Almost immediately 
two other windows flew into fragments, and I saw 
that the whole of the lower part of my house was 
nothing but a terrible furnace. But a cry, a horrible, 
shrill, heartrending cry, a woman’s cry, sounded 
through the night, and two garret windows were 
opened! I had forgotten the servants! I saw the 
terrorstruck faces, and their frantically waving 
arms! . . . 

Then, overwhelmed with horror, I set off to 
run to the village, shouting: “Help! help! fire! 
fire!” I met some people who were already coming 
onto the scene, and I went back with them to see! 

By this time the house was nothing but a horrible 
and magnificent funeral pile, a monstrous funeral 
pile which lit up the whole country, a funeral pile 
where men were burning, and where he was burning 
also, He, He, my prisoner, that new Being, the new 
master, the Horla! 


THE HORLA 


247 


Suddenly the whole roof fell in between the walls, 
and a volcano of flames darted up to the sky. 
Through all the windows which opened onto that 
furnace I saw the flames darting, and I thought 
that he was there, in that kiln, dead. 

Dead? perhaps? . . . His body? Was not his 
body, which was transparent, indestructible by such 
means as would kill ours? 

If he was not dead? . . . Perhaps time alone has 
power over that Invisible and Redoubtable Being. 
Why this transparent, unrecognizable body, this 
body belonging to a spirit, if it also had to fear ills, 
infirmities and premature destruction? 

Premature destruction? All human terror springs 
from that! After man the Horla. After him who 
can die every day, at any hour, at any moment, by 
any accident, he came who was only to die at his 
own proper hour and minute, because he had touched 
the limits of his existence! 

No . . . no . . . without any doubt ... he is 
not dead. Then . . . then ... I suppose I must 
kill myself! 

[Editor’s Note. Students of this great genius among 
short story writers contend that there is an autobiographical 
touch to “The Horla.” De Maupassant had a haunting pre¬ 
sentiment of going mad.] 


THE MUMMY’S FOOT 


By Theophile Gautier 

I had entered, in an idle mood, the shop of one of 
those curiosity venders who are called marchands de 
bric-a-brac in that Parisian argot which is so per¬ 
fectly unintelligble elsewhere in France. 

You have doubtless glanced occasionally through 
the windows of some of these shops, which have be¬ 
come so numerous now that it is fashionable to buy 
antiquated furniture, and that every petty stock 
broker thinks he must have his chambre au moyen 
age. 

There is one thing there which clings alike to the 
shop of the dealer in old iron, the ware-room of the 
tapestry maker, the laboratory of the chemist, and 
the studio of the painter: in all those gloomy dens 
where a furtive daylight filters in through the win¬ 
dow-shutters the most manifestly ancient thing is 
dust. The cobwebs are more authentic than the 
guimp laces, and the old pear-tree furniture on ex¬ 
hibition is actually younger than the mahogany 
which arrived but yesterday from America. 

The warehouse of my bric-a-brac dealer was a 
veritable Capharnaum. All ages and all nations 
seemed to have made their rendezvous there. An 


248 


THE MUMMY'S FOOT 


249 


Etruscan lamp of red clay stood upon a Boule cab¬ 
inet, with ebony panels, brightly striped by lines of 
inlaid brass; a duchess of the court of Louis XV. 
nonchalantly extended her fawn-like feet under a 
massive table of the time of Louis XIII., with 
heavy spiral supports of oak, and carven designs of 
chimeras and foliage intermingled. 

Upon the denticulated shelves of several side¬ 
boards glittered immense Japanese dishes with red 
and blue designs relieved by gilded hatching, side 
by side with enamelled works by Bernard Palissy, 
representing serpents, frogs, and lizards in relief. 

From disembowelled cabinets escaped cascades of 
silver-lustrous Chinese silks and waves of tinsels 
which an oblique sunbeam shot through with lumi¬ 
nous beads; while portraits of every era, in frames 
more or less tarnished, smiled through their yellow 
varnish. 

The striped breastplate of a damascened suit of 
Milanese armor glittered in one corner; loves and 
nymphs of porcelain, Chinese grotesques, vases of 
celadon and crackle-ware, Saxon and old Sevres cups 
encumbered the shelves and nooks of the apart¬ 
ment. 

The dealer followed me closely through the tor¬ 
tuous way contrived between the piles of furniture, 
warding off with his hand the hazardous sweep of 
my coat-skirts, watching my elbows with the uneasy 
attention of an antiquarian and a usurer. 

It was a singular face, that of the merchant; an 
immense skull, polished like a knee, and surrounded 


250 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


by a thin aureole of white hair, which brought out 
the clear salmon tint of his complexion all the more 
strikingly, lent him a false aspect of patriarchal 
bonhomie, counteracted, however, by the scintilla¬ 
tion of two little yellow eyes which trembled in their 
orbits like two louis d’or upon quicksilver. The 
curve of his nose presented an aquiline silhouette, 
which suggested the Oriental or Jewish type. His 
hands—thin, slender, full of nerves which projected 
like strings upon the finger-board of a violin, and 
armed with claws like those on the terminations of 
bats’ wings—shook with senile trembling; but those 
convulsively agitated hands became firmer than steel 
pincers or lobsters’ claws when they lifted any pre¬ 
cious article—an onyx cup, a Venetian glass, or a 
dish of Bohemian crystal. This strange old man had 
an aspect so thoroughly rabbinical and cabalistic 
that he would have been burnt on the mere testi¬ 
mony of his face three centuries ago. 

“Will you not buy something from me to-day, 
sir? Here is a Malay kreese with a blade undulating 
like flame. Look at those grooves contrived for the 
blood to run along, those teeth set backward so as 
to tear out the entrails in withdrawing the weapon. 
It is a fine character of ferocious arm, and will look 
well in your collection. This two-handed sword is 
very beautiful. It is the work of Josepe de la Hera; 
and this colicliemarde, with its fenestrated guard— 
what a superb specimen of handicraft!” 

“No; I have quite enough weapons and instru¬ 
ments of carnage. I want a small figure, something 


THE MUMMY'S FOOT 


251 


which will suit me as a paper-weight, for I cannot 
endure those trumpery bronzes which the stationers' 
sell, and which may be found on everybody’s desk.” 

The old gnome foraged among his ancient wares, 
and finally arranged before me some antique 
bronzes, so-called at least; fragments of malachite, 
little Hindoo or Chinese idols, a kind of poussah- 
toys in jade-stone, representing the incarnations of 
Brahma or Vishnoo, and wonderfully appropriate 
to the very undivine office of holding papers and 
letters in place. 

I was hesitating between a porcelain dragon, all 
constellated with warts, its mouth formidable with 
bristling tusks and ranges of teeth, and an abomin¬ 
able little Mexican fetich, representing the god 
Vitziliputzili an naturel t when I caught sight of a 
charming foot, which I at first took for a fragment 
of some antique Venus. 

It had those beautiful ruddy and tawny tints that 
lend to Florentine bronze that warm living look so 
much preferable to the gray-green aspect of common 
bronzes, which might easily be mistaken for statues 
in a state of putrefaction. Satiny gleams played 
over its rounded forms, doubtless polished by the 
amorous kisses of twenty centuries, for it seemed a 
Corinthian bronze, a work of the best era of art, 
perhaps molded by Lysippus himself. 

“That foot will be my choice,” I said to the mer¬ 
chant, who regarded me with an ironical and satur¬ 
nine air, and held out the object desired that I might 
examine it more fully. 


252 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


I was surprised at its lightness. It was not a foot 
of metal, but in sooth a foot of flesh, an embalmed 
foot, a mummy’s foot. On examining it still more 
closely the very grain of the skin, and the almost im¬ 
perceptible lines impressed upon it by the texture of 
the bandages, became perceptible. The toes were 
slender and delicate, and terminated by perfectly 
formed nails, pure and transparent as agates. The 
great toe, slightly separated from the rest, afforded 
a happy contrast, in the antique style, to the position 
of the other toes, and lent it an aerial lightness—the 
grace of a bird’s foot. The sole, scarcely streaked 
by a few almost imperceptible cross lines, afforded 
evidence that it had never touched the bare ground, 
and had only come in contact with the finest mat¬ 
ting of Nile rushes and the softest carpets of panther 
skin. 

“Ha, ha, you want the foot of the Princess ITer- 
monthis!” exclaimed the merchant, with a strange 
giggle, fixing his owlish eyes upon me. “Ha, ha, ha ! 
For a paper-weight! An original idea!—an artistic 
idea! Old Pharaoh would certainly have been sur¬ 
prised had some one told him that the foot of his 
adored daughter would be used for a paper-weight 
after he had had a mountain of granite hollowed 
out as a receptacle for the triple coffin, painted and 
gilded, covered with hieroglyphics and beautiful 
paintings of the Judgment of Souls,” continued the 
queer little merchant, half audibly, as though talking 
to himself. 


the mummy's foot 253 

“How much will you charge me for this mummy 
fragment?” 

“Ah, the highest price I can get, for it is a superb 
piece. If I had the match of it you could not have it 
for less than five hundred francs. The daughter of 
a Pharaoh! Nothing is more rare.” 

“Assuredly that is not a common article, but still, 
how much do you want? In the first place let me 
warn you that all my wealth consists of just five louis. 
I can buy anything that costs five louis, but nothing 
dearer. You might search my vest pockets and most 
secret drawers without even finding one poor five- 
franc piece more.” 

“Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermon- 
this! That is very little, very little indeed. ’Tis 
an authentic foot,” muttered the merchant, shaking 
his head, and imparting a peculiar rotary motion to 
his eyes. “Well, take it, and I will give you the ban¬ 
dages into the bargain,” he added, wrapping the 
foot in an ancient damask rag. “Very fine! Real 
damask—Indian damask which has never been re¬ 
dyed. It is strong, and yet it is soft,” he mumbled, 
stroking the frayed tissue with his fingers, through 
the trade-acquired habit which moved him to praise 
even an object of such little value that he himself 
deemed it only worth the giving away. 

He poured the gold coins into a sort of mediaeval 
alms-purse hanging at his belt, repeating: 

“The foot of the Princess Hermonthis to be used 
for a paper-weight!” 

Then turning his phosphorescent eyes upon me, 


254 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


he exclaimed In a voice strident as the crying of a 
cat which has swallowed a fish-bone: 

“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased. He loved 
his daughter, the dear man!” 

“You speak as if you were a contemporary of his. 
You are old enough, goodness knows! but you do not 
date back to the Pyramids of Egypt,” I answered, 
laughingly, from the threshold. 

I went home, delighted with my acquisition. 

With the idea of putting it to profitable use as 
soon as possible, I placed the foot of the divine 
Princess Hermonthis upon a heap of papers scribbled 
over with verses, in themselves an undecipherable 
mosaic work of erasures; articles freshly begun; let¬ 
ters forgotten, and posted in the table drawer in 
stead of the letter-box, an error to which absent- 
minded people are peculiarly liable. The effect was 
charming, bizarre, and romantic. 

Well satisfied with this embellishment, I went out 
with the gravity and pride becoming one who feels 
that he has the ineffable advantage over all the pass¬ 
ers-by whom he elbows, of possessing a piece of the 
Princess Hermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh. 

I looked upon all who did not possess, like myself, 
a paper-weight so authentically Egyptian as very 
ridiculous people, and it seemed to me that the 
proper occupation of every sensible man should con¬ 
sist in the mere fact of having a mummy’s foot upon 
his desk. 

Happily I met some friends, whose presence dis¬ 
tracted me in my infatuation with this new acquisi- 


THE MUMMY’S FOOT 


255 


tion. I went to dinner with them, for I could not 
very well have dined with myself. 

When I came back that evening, with my brain 
slightly confused by a few glasses of wine, a vague 
whiff of Oriental perfume delicately titillated my 
olfactory nerves. The heat of the room had 
warmed the natron, bitumen, and myrrh in which 
the paraschistes, who cut open the bodies of the 
dead, had bathed the corpse of the princess. It was 
a perfume at once sweet and penetrating, a perfume 
that four thousand years had not been able to dissi¬ 
pate. 

The Dream of Egypt was Eternity. Her odors 
have the solidity of granite and endure as long. 

I soon drank deeply from the black cup of sleep. 
For a few hours all remained opaque to me. Obli¬ 
vion and nothingness inundated me with their som¬ 
bre waves. 

Yet light gradually dawned upon the darkness of 
my mind. Dreams commenced to touch me softly 
in their silent flight. 

The eyes of my soul were opened, and I beheld 
my chamber as it actually was. I might have be¬ 
lieved myself awake but for a vague consciousness 
which assured me that I slept, and that something 
fantastic was about to take place. 

The odor of the myrrh had augmented in inten¬ 
sity, and I felt a slight headache, which I very natu¬ 
rally attributed to several glasses of champagne 
that we had drunk to the unknown gods and our 
future fortunes. 


256 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


I peered through my room with a feeling of ex¬ 
pectation which I saw nothing to justify. Every 
article of furniture was in its proper place. The 
lamp, softly shaded by its globe of ground crystal, 
burned upon its bracket; the water-color sketches 
shone under their Bohemian glass; the curtains 
hung down languidly; everything wore an aspect of 
tranquil slumber. 

After a few moments, however, all this calm in¬ 
terior appeared to become disturbed. The wood¬ 
work cracked stealthily, the ash-covered log suddenly 
emitted a jet of blue flame, and the disks of the pat- 
eras seemed like great metallic eyes, watching, like 
myself, for the things which were about to happen. 

My eyes accidentally fell upon the desk where I 
had placed the foot of the Princess Hermonthis. 

Instead of remaining quiet, as behooved a foot 
which had been embalmed for four thousand years, 
it commenced to act in a nervous manner, contracted 
itself, and leaped over the papers like a startled 
frog. One would have imagined that it had suddenly 
been brought into contact with a galvanic battery. I 
could distinctly hear the dry sound made by its little 
heel, hard as the hoof of a gazelle. 

I became rather discontented with my acquisition, 
inasmuch as I wished my paper-weights to be of a 
sedentary disposition, and thought it very unnatural 
that feet should walk about without legs, then I 
commenced to experience a feeling closely akin to 
fear. 

Suddenly I saw the folds of my bed-curtain stir, 


THE MUMMY'S FOOT 


257 


and heard a bumping sound, like that caused by 
some person hopping on one foot across the floor. I 
must confess I became alternately hot and cold, that 
I felt a strange wind chill my back, and that my 
suddenly rising hair caused my night-cap to execute 
a leap of several yards. 

The bed-curtains opened and I beheld the strang¬ 
est figure imaginable before me. 

It was a young girl of a very deep coffee-brown 
complexion, like the bayadere Amani, and possessing 
the purest Egyptian type of perfect beauty. Her 
eyes were almond-shaped and oblique, with eyebrows 
so black that they seemed blue; her nose was ex¬ 
quisitely chiselled, almost Greek in its delicacy of 
outline; and she might indeed have been taken for a 
Corinthian statue of bronze but for the prominence 
of her cheek-bones and the slightly African fulness of 
her lips, which compelled one to recognize her as be¬ 
longing beyond all doubt to the hieroglyphic race 
which dwelt upon the banks of the Nile. 

Her arms, slender and spindle-shaped like those 
of very young girls, were encircled by a peculiar kind 
of metal bands and bracelets of glass beads; her hair 
was all twisted into little cords, and she wore upon 
her bosom a little idol-figure of green paste, bearing 
a whip with seven lashes, which proved it to be an 
image of Isis; her brow was adorned with a shining 
plate of gold, and a few traces of paint relieved the 
coppery tint of her cheeks. 

As for her costume, it was very odd indeed. 

Fancy a pagne, or skirt, all formed of little strips 


258 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


of material bedizened with red and black hierogly¬ 
phics, stiffened with bitumen, and apparently be¬ 
longing to a freshly unbandaged mummy. 

In one of those sudden flights of thought so com¬ 
mon in dreams I heard the hoarse falsetto of the 
bric-a-brac dealer, repeating like a monotonous re¬ 
frain the phrase he had uttered in his shop with so 
enigmatical an intonation: 

“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased. He loved 
his daughter, the dear man!” 

One strange circumstance, which was not at all 
calculated to restore my equanimity, was that the 
apparition had but one foot; the other was broken 
off at the ankle! 

She approached the table where the foot lay, 
starting and fidgetting about more than ever, and 
there supported herself upon the edge of the desk. 
I saw her eyes fill with pearly gleaming tears. 

Although she had not as yet spoken, I fully com¬ 
prehended the thoughts which agitated her. She 
looked at her foot—for it was indeed her own—with 
an exquisitely graceful expression of coquettish sad¬ 
ness, but the foot leaped and ran hither and thither, 
as though impelled on steel springs. 

Twice or thrice she extended her hand to seize it, 
but could not succeed. 

Then commenced between the Princess Hermon- 
this and her foot—which appeared to be endowed 
with a special life of its own—a very fantastic dia¬ 
logue in a most ancient Coptic tongue, such as might 
have been spoken thirty centuries ago by the sphinxes 


the mummy's foot 259 

of the land of Ser. Luckily I understood Coptic 
perfectly well that night. 

The Princess Hermonthis cried, in a voice sweet 
and vibrant as the tones of a crystal bell: 

“Well, my dear little foot, you always flee from 
me, yet I always took good care of you. I bathed 
you with perfumed water in a bowl of alabaster; I 
smoothed your heel with pumice-stone mixed with 
palm oil; your nails were cut with golden scissors 
and polished with a hippopotamus tooth; I was care¬ 
ful to select tatbebs for you, painted and embroid¬ 
ered and turned up at the toes, which were the envy 
of all the young girls in Egypt. You wore on your 
great toe rings bearing the device of the sacred Sca- 
rabaeus, and you supported one of the lightest bodies 
that a lazy foot could sustain.” 

The foot replied in a pouting and chagrined tone: 

“You know well that I do not belong to myself 
any longer. I have been bought and paid for. The 
old merchant knew what he was about. He bore you 
a grudge for having refused to espouse him. This is 
an ill turn which he has done you. The Arab who 
violated your royal coffin in the subterranean pits 
of the necropolis of Thebes was sent thither by him. 
He desired to prevent you from being present at the 
reunion of the shadowy nations in the cities below. 
Have you five pieces of gold for my ransom?” 

“Alas, no! My jewels, my rings, my purses of 
gold and silver were all stolen from me,” answered 
the Princess Hermonthis, with a sob. 

“Princess,” I then exclaimed, “I never retained 


260 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


anybody’s foot unjustly. Even though you have not 
got the five louis which it cost me, I present it to you 
gladly. I should feel unutterably wretched to think 
that I were the cause of so amiable a person as the 
Princess Hermonthis being lame.” 

I delivered this discourse in a royally gallant, 
troubadour tone which must have astonished the 
beautiful Egyptian girl. 

She turned a look of deepest gratitude upon me, 
and her eyes shone with bluish gleams of light. 

She took her foot, which surrendered itself will¬ 
ingly this time, like a woman about to put on her 
little shoe, and adjusted it to her leg with much skill. 

This operation over, she took a few steps about 
the room, as though to assure herself that she was 
really no longer lame. 

“Ah, how pleased my father will be! He who 
was so unhappy because of my mutilation, and who 
from the moment of my birth set a whole nation at 
work to hollow me out a tomb so deep that he might 
preserve me intact until that last day, when souls 
must be weighed in the balance of Amenthi! Come 
with me to my father. He will receive you kindly, 
for you have given me back my foot.” 

I thought this proposition natural enough. I ar¬ 
rayed myself in a dressing-gown of large-flowered 
pattern, which lent me a very Pharaonic aspect, 
hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slippers, and in¬ 
formed the Princess Hermonthis that I was ready to 
follow her. 

Before starting, Hermonthis took from her neck 


THE MUMMY'S FOOT 


261 


the little idol of green paste, and laid it on the 
scattered sheets of paper which covered the table. 

“It is only fair,” she observed, smilingly, “that I 
should replace your paper-weight.” 

She gave me her hand, which felt soft and cold, 
like the skin of a serpent, and we departed. 

We passed for some time with the velocity of an 
arrow through a fluid and grayish expanse, in which 
half-formed silhouettes flitted swiftly by us, to right 
and left. 

For an instant we saw only sky and sea. 

A few moments later obelisks commenced to 
tower in the distance; pylons and vast flights of steps 
guarded by sphinxes became clearly outlined against 
the horizon. 

We had reached our destination. 

The princess conducted me to a mountain of rose- 
colored granite, in the face of which appeared an 
opening so narrow and low that it would have been 
difficult to distinguish it from the fissures in the 
rock, had not its location been marked by two stelae 
wrought with sculptures. 

Hermonthis kindled a torch and led the way be¬ 
fore me. 

We traversed corridors hewn through the living 
rock. These walls covered with hieroglyphics and 
paintings of allegorical processions, might well have 
occupied thousands of arms for thousands of years 
in their formation. These corridors of interminable 
length opened into square chambers, in the midst of 
which pits had been contrived, through which we de- 


262 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


scended by cramp-irons or spiral stairways. These 
pits again conducted us into other chambers, open¬ 
ing into other corridors, likewise decorated with 
painted sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles, 
the symbols of the tau and pedum —prodigious works 
of art which no living eye can ever examine—inter¬ 
minable legends of granite which only the dead have 
time to read through all eternity. 

At last we found ourselves in a hall so vast, so 
enormous, so immeasurable, that the eye could not 
reach its limits. Files of monstrous columns 
stretched far out of sight on every side, between 
which twinkled livid stars of yellowish flame; points 
of light which revealed further depths incalculable 
in the darkness beyond. 

The Princess Hermonthis still held my hand, and 
graciously saluted the mummies of her acquaint¬ 
ance. 

My eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight, 
and objects became discernible. 

I beheld the kings of the subterranean races seated 
upon thrones—grand old men, though dry, withered, 
wrinkled like parchment, and blackened with 
naphtha and bitumen—all wearing pshents of gold, 
and breast-plates and gorgets glittering with precious 
stones, their eyes immovably fixed like the eyes of 
sphinxes, and their long beards whitened by the snow 
of centuries. Behind them stood their peoples, in 
the stiff and constrained posture enjoined by Egyp¬ 
tian art, all eternally preserving the attitude pre¬ 
scribed by the hieratic code. Behind these nations, 


THE MUMMY'S FOOT 


263 


the cats, ibixes, and crocodiles, contemporary with 
them—rendered monstrous of aspect by their swath¬ 
ing bands—mewed, flapped their wings, or extended 
their jaws in a saurian giggle. 

All the Pharaohs were there—Cheops, Cheph- 
renes, Psammetichus, Sesostris, Amenotaph—all the 
dark rulers of the pyramids and sphinxes. On yet 
higher thrones sat Chronos and Xixouthros, who 
was contemporary with the deluge, and Tubal Cain, 
who reigned before it. 

The beard of King Xixouthros had grown seven 
times around the granite table, upon which he leaned, 
lost in deep reverie, and buried in dreams. 

Farther back, through a dusty cloud, I beheld 
dimly the seventy-two pre-adamite kings, with their 
seventy-two peoples, forever passed away. 

After permitting me to gaze upon this bewildering 
spectacle a few moments, the Princess Hermonthis 
presented me to her father Pharaoh, who favored 
me with a most gracious nod. 

“I have found my foot again! I have found my 
foot!” cried the princess, clapping her little hands 
together with every sign of frantic joy. “It was this 
gentleman who restored it to me.” 

The races of Kemi, the races of Nahasi—all the 
black, bronzed, and copper-colored nations repeated 
in chorus: 

“The Princess Hermonthis has found her foot 
again!” 

Even Xixouthros himself was visibly affected. 

He raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his moustache 


264 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


with his fingers, and turned upon me a glance weighty 
with centuries. 

“By Oms, the dog of Hell, and Tmei, daughter of 
the Sun and of Truth, this is a brave and worthy 
lad!” exclaimed Pharaoh, pointing to me with his 
sceptre, which was terminated with a lotus-flower. 
“What recompense do you desire?” 

Filled with that daring inspired by dreams in 
which nothing seems impossible, I asked him for the 
hand of the Princess Hermonthis. The hand seemed 
to me a very proper antithetic recompense for the 
foot. 

Pharaoh opened wide his great eyes of glass in 
astonishment at my witty request. 

“What country do you come from, what is your 
age?” 

“I am a Frenchman, and I am twenty-seven years 
old, venerable Pharaoh.” 

“Twenty-seven years old, and he wishes to espouse 
the Princess Hermonthis who is thirty centuries 
old!” cried out at once all the Thrones and all the 
Circles of Nations. 

Only Hermonthis herself did not seem to think 
my request unreasonable. 

“If you were even two thousand years old,” 
replied the ancient king, “I would willingly give you 
the princess, but the disproportion is too great; and, 
besides, we must give our daughters husbands who 
will last well. You do not know how to preserve 
yourselves any longer. Even those who died only 
fifteen centuries ago are already no more than a 


THE MUMMY'S FOOT 


265 


handful of dust. Behold, my flesh is solid as basalt, 
my bones are bones of steel! 

“I will be present on the last day of the world with 
the same body and the same features which I had 
during my lifetime. My daughter Hermonthis will 
last longer than a statue of bronze. 

“Then the last particles of your dust will have 
been scattered abroad by the winds, and even 
Isis herself, who was able to find the atoms of 
Osiris, would scarce be able to recompense your 
being. 

“See how vigorous I yet remain, and how mighty 
is my grasp,” he added, shaking my hand in the 
English fashion with a strength that buried my rings 
in the flesh of my fingers. 

He squeezed me so hard that I awoke, and found 
my friend Alfred shaking me by the arm to make me 
get up. 

“Oh, you everlasting sleeper! Must I have you 
carried out into the middle of the street, and fire¬ 
works exploded in your ears? It is afternoon. 
Don’t you recollect your promise to take me with 
you to see M. Aguado’s Spanish pictures?” 

“God! I forgot all, all about it,” I answered, 
dressing myself hurriedly. “We will go there at 
once. I have the permit lying there on my desk.” 

I started to find it, but fancy my astonishment 
when I beheld, instead of the mummy’s foot I had 
purchased the evening before, the little green paste 
idol left in its place by the Princess Hermonthis! 


THE THIEF 


By Anna Katharine Green 

“And now, if you have all seen the coin and suffi¬ 
ciently admired it, you may pass it back. I make a 
point of never leaving it off the shelf for more than 
fifteen minutes.” 

The half-dozen or more guests seated about the 
board of the genial speaker, glanced casually at each 
other as though expecting to see the object men¬ 
tioned immediately produced. 

But no coin appeared. 

“I have other amusements waiting,” suggested 
their host, with a smile in which even his wife could 
detect no signs of impatience. “Now let Robert 
put it back into the cabinet.” 

Robert was the butler. 

Blank looks, negative gestures, but still no coin. 

“Perhaps it is in somebody’s lap,” timidly ven¬ 
tured one of the younger women. “It doesn’t seem 
to be on the table.” 

Immediately all the ladies began lifting their 

By permission of the author. From “ Masterpieces of Mys¬ 
tery,” by Anna Katharine Green, copyright 1913, by Dodd, 
Mead & Co. 


266 


THE THIEF 


267 


napkins and shaking out the gloves which lay under 
them, in an effort to relieve their own embarrassment 
and that of the gentlemen who had not even so 
simple a resource as this at their command. 

“It can’t be lost,” protested Mr. Sedgwick, with 
an air of perfect confidence. “I saw it but a minute 
ago in somebody’s hand. Darrow, you had it; what 
did you do with it?” 

“Passed it along,” 

“Well, well, it must be under somebody’s plate or 
doily.” And he began to move about his own and 
such dishes as were within reach of his hand. 

Each guest imitated him, lifting glasses and turn¬ 
ing over spoons till Mr. Sedgwick himself bade them 
desist. “It’s slipped to the floor,” he nonchalantly 
concluded. “A toast to the ladies, and we will give 
Robert the chance of looking for it.” 

As they drank this toast, his apparently careless, 
but quietly astute, glance took in each countenance 
about him. The coin was very valuable and its loss 
would be keenly felt by him. Had it slipped from 
the table some one’s eye would have perceived it, 
some hand would have followed it. Only a minute 
or two before, the attention of the whole party had 
been concentrated upon it. Darrow had held it up 
for all to see, while he discoursed upon its history. 
He would take Darrow aside at the first opportunity 
and ask him— But—ah! how could he do that? 
These were his intimate friends. He knew them 
well, more than well, with one exception, and he— 
Well, he was the handsomest of the lot and the most 


268 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


debonair and agreeable. A little more gay than 
usual to-night, possibly a trifle too gay, considering 
that a man of Mr. Blake’s social weight and busi¬ 
ness standing sat at the board; but not to be sus¬ 
pected, no, not to be suspected, even if he was the 
next man after Darrow and had betrayed something 
like confusion when the eyes of the whole table 
turned his way at the former’s simple statement of 
“I passed it on.” Robert would find the coin; he 
was a fool to doubt it; and if Robert did not, why, 
he would simply have to pocket his chagrin, and not 
let a triviality like this throw a shadow over his 
hospitality. 

All this, while he genially lifted his glass and pro¬ 
posed the health of the ladies. The constraint of 
the preceding moment was removed by his manner, 
and a dozen jests caused as many merry laughs. 
Then he pushed back his chair. 

“And now, some music!” he cheerfully cried, as 
with lingering glances and some further pokings 
about of the table furniture, the various guests left 
their places and followed him into the adjoining 
room. 

But the ladies were too nervous and the gentle¬ 
men not sufficiently sure of their voices to undertake 
the entertainment of the rest at a moment of such 
acknowledged suspense; and notwithstanding the 
exertions of their host and his quiet but much dis¬ 
comfited wife, it soon became apparent that but one 
thought engrossed them all, and that any attempt at 
conversation must prove futile so long as the curtains 


THE THIEF 


269 


between the two rooms remained open and they 
could see Robert on his hands and knees searching 
the floor and shoving aside the rugs. 

Darrow, who was Mr. Sedgwick’s brother-in-law 
and almost as much at home in the house as Sedg¬ 
wick himself, made a move to draw these curtains, 
but something in his relative’s face stopped him and 
he desisted with some laughing remark which did 
not attract enough attention, even, to elicit any re¬ 
sponse. 

“I hope his eyesight is good,” murmured one of 
the young girls, edging a trifle forward. “Mayn’t 
I help him look? They say at home that I am the 
only one in the house who can find anything.” 

Mr. Sedgwick smiled indulgently at the speaker 
(a round-faced, round-eyed, merry-hearted girl 
whom in days gone by he had dandled on his knees) 
but answered quite quickly for him: 

“Robert will find it if it is there.” Then, dis¬ 
tressed at this involuntary disclosure of his thought, 
added in his wholehearted way: “It’s such a little 
thing, and the room is so big, and a round object 
rolls unexpectedly far, you know. Well, have you 
got it?” he eagerly demanded, as the butler finally 
showed himself in the door. 

“No, sir; and it’s not in the dining-room. I have 
cleared the table and thoroughly searched the floor.” 

Mr. Sedgwick knew that he had. He had no 
doubts about Robert. Robert had been in his em¬ 
ploy for years and had often handled his coins and, 
at his order, sometimes shown them. 


270 FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 

“Very well,” said he, “we’ll not bother about it 
any more to-night; you may draw the curtains.” 

But here the clear, almost strident voice of the 
youngest man of the party interposed. 

“Wait a minute,” said he. “This especial coin 
is the great treasure of Mr. Sedgwick’s valuable col¬ 
lection. It is unique in this country, and not only 
worth a great deal of money, but cannot be dupli¬ 
cated at any cost. There are only three of its stamp 
in the world. Shall we let the matter pass, then, 
as though it were of small importance? I feel that 
we cannot; that we are, in a measure, responsible for 
its disappearance. Mr. Sedgwick handed it to us to 
look at, and while it was going through our hands it 
vanished. What must he think? What has he every 
right to think? I need not put it into words; you 
know what you would think, what you could not 
help but think, if the object were yours and it was 
lost in this way. Gentlemen—I leave the ladies 
entirely out of this—I do not propose that he shall 
have further opportunity to associate me with this 
very natural doubt. I demand the privilege of 
emptying my pockets here and now, before any of 
us have left his presence. I am a connoisseur in 
coins myself and consequently find it imperative to 
take the initiative in this matter. As I propose to 
spare the ladies, let us step back into the dining¬ 
room. Mr. Sedgwick, pray don’t deny me; I’m 
thoroughly in earnest, I assure you.” 

The astonishment created by this audacious propo¬ 
sition was so great, and the feeling it occasioned so 


THE THIEF 


271 


intense, that for an instant all stood speechless. 
Young Hammersley was a millionaire himself, and 
generous to a fault, as all knew. Under no circum¬ 
stances would any one even suspect him of appropri¬ 
ating anything, great or small, to which he had not 
a perfect right. Nor was he likely to imagine for 
a moment that any one would. That he could make 
such a proposition then, based upon any such plea, 
argued a definite suspicion in some other quarter, 
which could not pass unrecognized. In vain Mr. 
Sedgwick raised his voice in frank and decided pro¬ 
test, two of the gentlemen had already made a quick 
move toward Robert, who still stood, stupefied by 
the situation, with his hand on the cord which con¬ 
trolled the curtains. 

“He is quite right,” remarked one of these, as he 
passed into the dining-room. “I shouldn’t sleep a 
wink to-night if this question remained unsettled.” 
The other, the oldest man present, the financier of 
whose standing and highly esteemed character I have 
already spoken, said nothing, but followed in a way 
to show that his mind was equally made up. 

The position in which Mr. Sedgwick found him¬ 
self placed was far from enviable. With a glance 
at the two remaining gentlemen, he turned towards 
the ladies now standing in a close group at the other 
end of the room. One of them was his wife, and he 
quivered internally as he noted the deep red of her 
distressed countenance. But it was the other he 
addressed, singling out, with the rare courtesy which 
was his by nature, the one comparative stranger, 


272 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Darrow’s niece, a Rochester girl, who could not be 
finding this, her first party in Boston, very amusing. 

“I hope you will appreciate the dilemma in which 
I have been placed by these gentlemen,” he began, 
‘‘and will pardon—” 

But here he noticed that she was not in the least 
attending; her eyes were on the handsome figure of 
Hugh Clifford, her uncle’s neighbor at table, who in 
company with Mr. Hammersley was still hesitating 
in the doorway. As Mr. Sedgwick stopped his use¬ 
less talk, the two passed in and the sound of her 
fluttering breath as she finally turned a listening ear 
his way, caused him to falter as he repeated his as¬ 
surances and begged her indulgence. 

She answered with some conventional phrase 
which he forgot while crossing the room. But the 
remembrance of her slight satin-robed figure, drawn 
up in an attitude whose carelessness was totally be¬ 
lied by the anxiety of her half-averted glance, 
followed him into the presence of the four men 
awaiting him. Four? I should say five, for Robert 
was still there, though in a corner by himself, ready, 
no doubt, to share any attempt which the others 
might make to prove their innocence. 

“The ladies will await us in the music-room,” an¬ 
nounced the host on entering; and then paused, dis¬ 
concerted by the picture suddenly disclosed to his 
eye. On one side stood the two who had entered 
first, with their eyes fixed in open sternness on young 
Clifford, who, quite alone on the rug, faced them 
with a countenance of such pronounced pallor that 


THE THIEF 


273 


there seemed to be nothing else in the room. As his 
features were singularly regular and his almost per¬ 
fect mouth was accentuated by a smile as set as his 
figure was immobile* the effect was so startling that 
not only Mr. Sedgwick, but every other person pres¬ 
ent, no doubt, wished that the plow had never turned 
the furrow which had brought this wretched coin to 
light. 

However, the affair had gone too far now for re¬ 
treat, as was shown by Mr. Blake, the elderly finan¬ 
cier whom all were ready to recognize as the chief 
guest there. With an apologetic glance at Mr. Ham- 
mersley, the impetuous young millionaire who had 
first proposed this embarrassing procedure, he ad¬ 
vanced to an empty side-table and began, in a quiet, 
business-like way, to lay on it the contents of his vari¬ 
ous pockets. As the pile rose, the silence grew, the 
act in itself was so simple, the motive actuating it 
so serious and out of accord with the standing of the 
company and the nature of the occasion. When all 
was done, he stepped up to Mr. Sedgwick, with his 
arms raised and held out from his body. 

“Now accommodate me,” said he, “by running 
your hands up and down my chest. I have a secret 
pocket there which should be empty at this time.’ , 

Mr. Sedgwick, fascinated by his look, did as he 
was bid, reporting shortly: 

“You are quite correct. I find nothing there.” 

Mr. Blake stepped back. As he did so, every 
eye, suddenly released from his imposing figure, 
flashed towards the immovable Clifford, to find him 


274 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


still absorbed by the action and attitude of the man' 
who had just undergone what to him doubtless ap¬ 
peared a degrading ordeal. Pale before, he was 
absolutely livid now, though otherwise unchanged. 
To break the force of what appeared to be an open, 
if involuntary, self-betrayal, another guest stepped 
forward; but no sooner had he raised his hand to 
his vest-pocket than Clifford moved, and in a high, 
strident voice totally unlike his usual tones remarked: 

“This is all—all—very interesting and commend¬ 
able, no doubt. But for such a procedure to be of 
any real value it should be entered into by all. 
Gentlemen”—his rigidity was all gone now and so 
was his pallor—“I am unwilling to submit myself 
to what, in my eyes, is an act of unnecessary humilia¬ 
tion. Our word should be enough. I have not the 
coin—” Stopped by the absolute silence, he cast a 
distressed look into the faces about him, till it 
reached that of Mr. Sedgwick, where it lingered, in 
an appeal to which that gentleman, out of his great 
heart, instantly responded. 

“One should take the word of the gentleman he 
invites to his house. We will excuse you, and excuse 
all the others from the unnecessary ceremony which 
Mr. Blake has been good enough to initiate.” 

But this show of favor was not to the mind of 
the last-mentioned gentleman, and met with instant 
reproof. 

“Not so fast, Sedgwick. I am the oldest man here 
and I did not feel it was enough simply to state that 
this coin was not on my person. As to the question 


THE THIEF 


275 


of humiliation, it strikes me that humiliation would 
lie, in this instance, in a refusal for which no better 
excuse can be given than the purely egotistical one 
of personal pride.” 

At this attack, the fine head of Clifford rose, and 
Darrow, remembering the girl within, felt instinct¬ 
ively grateful that she was not here to note the ef¬ 
fect it gave to his person. 

“I regret to differ,” said he. “To me no humilia¬ 
tion could equal that of demonstrating in this open 
manner the fact of one’s not being a thief.” 

Mr. Blake gravely surveyed him. For some rea¬ 
son the issue seemed no longer to lie between Clif¬ 
ford and the actual loser of the coin, but between him 
and his fellow guest, this uncompromising banker. 

“A thief!” repeated the young man, in an inde¬ 
scribable tone full of bitterness and scorn. 

Mr. Blake remained unmoved; he was a just man 
but strict, hard to himself, hard to others. But he 
was not entirely without heart. Suddenly his expres¬ 
sion lightened. A certain possible explanation of the 
other’s attitude had entered his mind. 

“Young men sometimes have reasons for their 
susceptibilities which the old forget. If you have 
such—if you carry a photograph, believe that we 
have no interest in pictures of any sort to-night and 
certainly would fail to recognize them.” 

A smile of disdain flickered across the young 
man’s lip. Evidently it was no discovery of this kind 
that he feared. 

“I carry no photographs,” said he; and, bowing 


276 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


low to his host, he added in a measured tone which 
but poorly hid his profound agitation, “I regret to 
have interfered in the slightest way with the pleasure 
of the evening. If you will be so good as to make 
my excuses to the ladies, I will withdraw from a pres¬ 
ence upon which I have made so poor an impres¬ 
sion.” 

Mr. Sedgwick prized his coin and despised deceit, 
but he could not let a guest leave him in this manner. 
Instinctively he held out his hand. Proudly young 
Clifford dropped his own into it; but the lack of 
mutual confidence was felt and the contact was a cold 
one. Half regretting his impulsive attempt at cour¬ 
tesy, Mr. Sedgwick drew back, and Clifford was al¬ 
ready at the door leading into the hall, when Ham- 
mersley, who by his indiscreet proposition had made 
all this trouble for him, sprang forward and caught 
him by the arm. 

“Don’t go,” he whispered. “You’re done for if 
you leave like this. I—I was a brute to propose such 
an asinine thing, but having done so I am bound to 
see you out of the difficulty. Come into the adjoin¬ 
ing room—there is nobody there at present—and 
we will empty our pockets together and find this lost 
article if we can. I may have pocketed it myself, 
in a fit of abstraction.” 

Did the other hesitate? Some thought so; but, if 
he did, it was but momentarily. 

“I cannot,” he muttered; “think what you will of 
me, but let me go.” And dashing open the door he 
disappeared from their sight just as light steps and 


THE THIEF 


277 


the rustle of skirts were heard again in the adjoining 
room. 

“There are the ladies. What shall we say to 
them?” queried Sedgwick, stepping slowly towards 
the intervening curtains. 

“Tell them the truth,” enjoined Mr. Blake, as he 
hastily repocketed his own belongings. “Why 
should a handsome devil like that be treated with 
any more consideration than another? He has a 
secret if he hasn’t a coin. Let them know this. It 
may save some one a future heartache.” 

The last sentence was muttered, but Mr. Sedgwick 
heard it. Perhaps that was why his first movement 
on entering the adjoining room was to cross over to 
the cabinet and shut and lock the heavily paneled 
door which had been left standing open. At all 
events, the action drew general attention and caused 
an instant silence, broken the next minute by an 
ardent cry: 

“So your search was futile?” 

It came from the lady least known, the interesting 
young stranger whose personality had made so vivid 
an impression upon him. 

“Quite so,” he answered, hastily facing her with 
an attempted smile. “The gentlemen decided not 
to carry matters to the length first proposed. The 
object was not worth it. I approved their decision. 
This was meant for a joyous occasion. Why mar 
it by unnecessary unpleasantness?” 

She had given him her full attention while he was 
speaking, but her eye wandered away the moment he 


278 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


had finished and rested searchingly on the other 
gentlemen. Evidently she missed a face she had ex¬ 
pected to find there, for her color changed and she 
drew back behind the other ladies with the light, 
unmusical laugh women sometimes use to hide a 
secret emotion. 

It brought Mr. Darrow forward. 

“Some were not willing to subject themselves to 
what they considered an unnecessary humiliation,” 
he curtly remarked. “Mr. Clifford—” 

“There! let us drop it,” put in his brother-in-law. 
“I’ve lost my coin and that’s the end of it. I don’t 
intend to have the evening spoiled for a thing like 
that. Music! ladies, music and a jolly air! No 
more dumps.” And with as hearty a laugh as he 
could command in face of the somber looks he en¬ 
countered on every side, he led the way back into 
the music-room. 

Once there the women seemed to recover their 
spirits; that is, such as remained. One had disap¬ 
peared. A door opened from this room into the 
main hall and through this a certain young lady had 
vanished before the others had had time to group 
themselves about the piano. We know who this lady 
was; possibly, we know, too, why her hostess did not 
follow her. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Clifford had gone upstairs for 
his coat, and was lingering there, the prey of some 
very bitter reflections. Though he had encountered 
nobody on the stairs, and neither heard nor saw any 
one in the halls, he felt confident that he was not 


THE THIEF 


279 


unwatched. He remembered the look on the butler’s 
face as he tore himself away from Hammersley’s 
restraining hand, and he knew what that fellow 
thought and also was quite able to guess what that 
fellow would do, if his suspicions were farther awak¬ 
ened. This conviction brought an odd and not very 
open smile to his face, as he finally turned to descend 
the one flight which separated him from the front 
door he was so ardently desirous of closing behind 
him for ever. 

A moment and he would be down; but the steps 
were many and seemed to multiply indefinitely as he 
sped below. Should his departure be noted, and 
some one advance to detain him! He fancied he 
heard a rustle in the open space under the stairs. 
Were any one to step forth, Robert or— With a 
start, he paused and clutched the banister. Some 
one had stepped forth; a woman! The swish of her 
skirts was unmistakable. He felt the chill of a new 
dread. Never in his short but triumphant career 
had he met coldness or disapproval in the eye of a 
woman. Was he to encounter it now? If so, it 
would go hard with him. He trembled as he turned 
his head to see which of the four it was. If it should 
prove to be his hostess— But it was not she; it was 
Darrow’s young friend, the pretty inconsequent girl 
he had chatted with at the dinner-table, and after¬ 
wards completely forgotten in the events which had 
centered all his thoughts upon himself. And she 
was standing there, waiting for him! He would 
have to pass her,—notice her,—speak. 


280 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


But when the encounter occurred and their eyes 
met, he failed to find in hers any sign of the disap¬ 
proval he feared, but instead a gentlewomanly inter¬ 
est which he might interpret deeply, or otherwise, 
according to the measure of his need. 

That need seemed to be a deep one at this instant, 
for his countenance softened perceptibly as he took 
her quietly extended hand. 

“Good-night,” she said; “I am just going myself,” 
and with an entrancing smile of perfect friendliness, 
she fluttered past him up the stairs. 

It was the one and only greeting which his sick 
heart could have sustained without flinching. Just 
this friendly farewell of one acquaintance to an¬ 
other, as though no change had taken place in his 
relations to society and the world. And she was a 
woman and not a thoughtless girl! Staring after 
her slight, elegant figure, slowly ascending the stair, 
he forgot to return her cordial greeting. What 
delicacy, and yet what character there was in the 
poise of her spirited head! He felt his breath fail 
him, in his anxiety for another glance from her eye, 
for some sign, however small, that she had carried 
the thought of him up those few, quickly mounted 
steps. Would he get it? She is at the bend of the 
stair; she pauses—turns, a nod—and she is gone. 

With an impetuous gesture, he dashed from the 
house. 

In the drawing-room the noise of the closing door 
was heard, and a change at once took place in the 
attitude and expression of all present. The young 


THE THIEF 


281 


millionaire approached Mr. Sedgwick and confiden¬ 
tially remarked: 

“There goes your precious coin. I’m sure of it. 
I even think I can tell the exact place in which it 
is hidden. His hand went to his left coat-pocket once 
too often.” 

“That’s right. I noticed the action also,” chimed 
in Mr. Darrow, who had stepped up, unobserved. 
“And I noticed something else. His whole appear¬ 
ance altered from the moment this coin came on the 
scene. An indefinable half-eager, half-furtive look 
crept into his eye as he saw it passed from hand to 
hand. I remember it now, though it didn’t make 
much impression upon me at the time.” 

“And I remember another thing,” supplemented 
Hammersley in his anxiety to set himself straight 
with these men of whose entire approval he was not 
quite sure. “He raised his napkin to his mouth very 
frequently during the meal and held it there longer 
than is usual, too. Once he caught me looking at 
him, and for a moment he flushed scarlet, then he 
broke out with one of his witty remarks and J had 
to laugh like everybody else. If I am not mistaken, 
his napkin was up and his right hand working be¬ 
hind it, about the time Mr. Sedgwick requested the 
return of his coin.” 

“The idiot! Hadn’t he sense enough to know that 
such a loss wouldn’t pass unquestioned? The gem 
of the collection; known all over the country, and 
he’s not even a connoisseur.” 


282 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


“No; I’ve never even heard him mention numis¬ 
matics.” 

“Mr. Darrow spoke of its value. Perhaps that 
was what tempted him. I know that Clifford’s been 
rather down on his luck lately.” 

“He? Well, he don’t look it. There isn’t one 
of us so well set up. Pardon me, Mr. Hammersley, 
you understand what I mean. He perhaps relies a 
little bit too much on his fine clothes.” 

“He needn’t. His face is his fortune—all the 
one he’s got, I heard it said. He had a pretty income 
from Consolidated Silver, but that’s gone up and 
left him in what you call difficulties. If he has debts 
besides—” 

But here Mr. Darrow was called off. His niece 
wanted to see him for one minute in the hall. When 
he came back it was to make his adieu and hers. 
She had been taken suddenly indisposed and his duty 
was to see her immediately home. This broke up 
the party, and amid general protestations the vari¬ 
ous guests were taking their leave when the whole 
action was stopped by a smothered cry from the 
dining-room, and the precipitate entrance of Robert, 
asking for Mr. Sedgwick. 

“What’s up? What’s happened?” demanded that 
gentleman, hurriedly advancing towards the agitated 
butler. 

“Found!” he exclaimed, holding up the coin be¬ 
tween his thumb and forefinger. “It was standing 
straight up between two leaves of the table. It 


THE THIEF 


283 


tumbled and fell to the floor as Luke and I were 
taking them out.” 

Silence which could be felt for a moment. Then 
each man turned and surveyed his neighbor, while 
the women’s voices rose in little cries that were al¬ 
most hysterical. 

“I knew that it would be found, and found here,” 
came from the hallway in rich, resonant tones. 
“Uncle, do not hurry; I am feeling better,” followed 
in unconscious naivete, as the young girl stepped in, 
showing a countenance in which were small signs 
of indisposition or even of depressed spirits. 

Mr. Darrow, with a smile of sympathetic under¬ 
standing, joined the others now crowding about the 
butler. 

“I noticed the crack between these two leaves 
when I pushed about the plates and dishes,” he was 
saying. “But I never thought of looking in it for 
the missing coin. I’m sure I’m very sorry that I 
didn’t.” 

Mr. Darrow, to whom these words had recalled 
a circumstance he had otherwise completely forgot¬ 
ten, anxiously remarked: “That must have hap¬ 
pened shortly after it left my hand. I recall now 
that the lady sitting between me and Clifford gave 
it a twirl which sent it spinning over the bare table- 
top. I don’t think she realized the action. She was 
listening—we all were—to a flow of bright repartee 
going on below us, and failed to follow the move¬ 
ments of the coin. Otherwise, she would have 


284 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


spoken. But what a marvel that it should have 
reached that crack in just the position to fall in!” 

“It wouldn’t happen again, not if we spun it there 
for a month of Sundays.” 

“But Mr. Clifford!” put in an agitated voice. 

“Yes, it has been rather hard on him. But he 
shouldn’t have such keen sensibilities. If he had 
emptied out his pockets cheerfully and at the first 
intimation, none of this unpleasantness would have 
happened. Mr. Sedgwick, I congratulate you upon 
the recovery of this valuable coin, and am quite 
ready to offer my services if you wish to make Mr. 
Clifford immediately acquainted with Robert’s dis¬ 
covery.” 

“Thank you, but I will perform that duty myself,” 
was Mr. Sedgwick’s quiet rejoinder, as he unlocked 
the door of his cabinet and carefully restored the 
coin to its proper place. 

When he faced back, he found his guests on the 
point of leaving. Only one gave signs of any in¬ 
tention of lingering. This was the elderly financier 
who had shown such stern resolve in his treatment 
of Mr. Clifford’s so-called sensibilities. He had 
confided his wife to the care of Mr. Darrow, and 
now met Mr. Sedgwick with this remark: 

“I’m going to ask a favor of you. If, as you have 
intimated, it is your intention to visit Mr. Clifford 
to-night, I should like to go with you. I don’t under¬ 
stand this young man and his unaccountable attitude 
in this matter, and it is very important that I should. 
Have you any objection to my company? My motor 


THE THIEF 


285 


is at the door, and we can settle the affair in twenty- 
minutes.” 

“None,” returned his host, a little surprised, how¬ 
ever, at the request. “His pride does seem a little 
out of place, but he was among comparative stran¬ 
gers, and seemed to feel his honor greatly impugned 
by Hammersley’s unfortunate proposition. Pm 
sorry way down to the ground for what has occurred, 
and cannot carry him our apologies too soon.” 

“No, you cannot,” retorted the other shortly. 
And so seriously did he utter this that no time was 
lost by Mr. Sedgwick, and as soon as they could get 
into their coats, they were in the motor and on their 
way to the young man’s apartment. 

Their experience began at the door. A man was 
lolling there who told them that Mr. Clifford had 
changed his quarters; where he did not know. But 
upon the production of a five-dollar bill, he remem¬ 
bered enough about it to give them a number and 
street where possibly they might find him. In a rush, 
they hastened there; only to hear the same story 
from the sleepy elevator boy anticipating his last trip 
up for the night. 

“Mr. Clifford left a week ago; he didn’t tell me 
where he was going.” 

Nevertheless the boy knew; that they saw, and 
another but smaller bill came into requisition and 
awoke his sleepy memory. 

The street and number which he gave made the 
two well-to-do men stare. But they said nothing, 
though the looks they cast back at the second-rate 


286 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


quarters they were leaving, so far below the elegant 
apartment house they had visited first, were suffi¬ 
ciently expressive. The scale of descent from luxury 
to positive discomfort was proving a rapid one and 
prepared them for the dismal, ill-cared-for, alto¬ 
gether repulsive doorway before which they halted 
next. No attendant waited here; not even an eleva¬ 
tor boy; the latter for the good reason that there 
was no elevator. An uninviting flight of stairs was 
before them! and on one the few doors within sight 
a simple card showed the name of the occupant. 

Mr. Sedgwick glanced at his companion. 

“Shall we go up?” he asked. 

Mr. Blake nodded. “We’ll find him,” said he, “if 
it takes all night.” 

“Surely he cannot have sunk lower than this.” 

“Remembering his get-up, I do not think so. Yet 
who knows? Some mystery lies back of his whole 
conduct. Dining in your home, with this to come 
back to! I don’t wonder—” 

But here a thought struck him. Pausing with his 
foot on the stair, he turned a flushed countenance 
towards Mr. Sedgwick. “I’ve an idea,” said he. 
“Perhaps—” He whispered the rest. 

Mr. Sedgwick stared and shook his shoulders. 
“Possibly,” said he, flushing slightly in his turn. 
Then, as they proceeded up, “I feel like a brute, 
anyway. A sorry night’s business all through, unless 
the end proves better than the beginning.” 

“We’ll start from the top. Something tells me 


THE THIEF 


287 


that we shall find him close under the roof. Can 
you read the names by such a light?” 

“Barely; but I have matches.” 

And now there might have been witnessed by any 
chance home-comer the curious sight of two ex¬ 
tremely well-dressed men pottering through the attic 
hall of this decaying old domicile, reading the cards 
on the doors by means of a lighted match. 

And vainly. On none of the cards could be seen 
the name they sought. 

“We’re on the wrong track,” protested Mr. 
Blake. “No use keeping this up,” but found him¬ 
self stopped, when about to turn away, by a gesture 
of Sedgwick’s. 

“There’s a light under the door you see there un¬ 
tagged,” said he. “I’m going to knock.” 

He did so. There was a sound within and then 
utter silence. 

He knocked again. A man’s step was heard ap¬ 
proaching the door, then again the silence. 

Mr. Sedgwick made a third essay, and then the 
door was suddenly pulled inward and in the gap 
they saw the handsome face and graceful figure of 
the young man they had so lately encountered amid 
palatial surroundings. But how changed! how 
openly miserable! and when he saw who his guests 
were, how proudly defiant of their opinion and pres¬ 
ence. 

“You have found the coin,” he quietly remarked. 
“I appreciate your courtesy in coming here to inform 
me of it. Will not that answer, without further 


288 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


conversation? I am on the point of retiring and—■ 
and—” 

Even the hardihood of a very visible despair gave 
way for an instant as he met Mr. Sedgwick’s eye. 
In the break which followed, the older man spoke. 

“Pardon us, but we have come thus far with a 
double purpose. First, to tender our apologies, 
which you have been good enough to accept; sec¬ 
ondly, to ask, in no spirit of curiosity, I assure you, 
a question that I seem to see answered, but which 
I should be glad to hear confirmed by your lips. 
May we not come in?” 

The question was put with a rare smile such as 
sometimes was seen on this hard-grained handler 
of millions, and the young man, seeing it, faltered 
back, leaving the way open for them to enter. The 
next minute he seemed to regret the impulse, for 
backing against a miserable table they saw there, he 
drew himself up with an air as nearly hostile as one 
of his nature could assume. 

“I know of no question,” said he, “which I feel 
at this very late hour inclined to answer. A man 
who has been tracked as I must have been for you 
to find me here, is hardly in a mood to explain his 
poverty or the mad desire for former luxuries which 
took him to the house of one friendly enough, he 
thought, to accept his presence without inquiry as 
to the place he lived in or the nature or number 
of the reverses which had brought him to such a 
place as this.” 

“I do not—believe me—” faltered Mr. Sedgwick, 


THE THIEF 


289 


greatly embarrassed and distressed. In spite of the 
young man’s attempt to hide the contents of the 
table, he had seen the two objects lying there—a 
piece of bread or roll, and a half-cocked revolver. 

Mr. Blake had seen them, too, and at once took 
the word out of his companion’s mouth. 

“You mistake us,” he said coldly, “as well as the 
nature of our errand. We are here from no motive 
of curiosity, as I have before said, nor from any 
other which might offend or distress you. We— 
or rather I—am here on business. I have a position 
to offer to an intelligent, upright, enterprising young 
man. Your name has been given me. It was given 
me before this dinner, to which I went—if Mr. Sedg¬ 
wick will pardon my plain speaking—chiefly for the 
purpose of making your acquaintance. The result 
was what you know, and possibly now you can un¬ 
derstand my anxiety to see you exonerate yourself 
from the doubts you yourself raised by your attitude 
of resistance to the proposition made by that head¬ 
long, but well-meaning, young man of many millions, 
Mr. Hammersley. I wanted to find in you the hon¬ 
orable characteristics necessary to the man who is to 
draw an eight thousand dollars a year salary under 
my eye. I still want to do this. If then you are 
willing to make this whole thing plain to me—for 
it is not plain—not wholly plain, Mr. Clifford—then 
you will find in me a friend such as few young fel¬ 
lows can boast of, for I like you—I will say that— 
and where I like—” 


290 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


The gesture with which he ended the sentence was 
almost superfluous, in face of the change which had 
taken place in the aspect of the man he addressed. 
Wonder, doubt, hope, and again incredulity were 
lost at last in a recognition of the other’s kindly 
intentions toward himself, and the prospects which 
they opened out before him. With a shamefaced 
look, and yet with a manly acceptance of his own 
humiliation that was not displeasing to his visitors, 
he turned about and pointing to the morsel of bread 
lying on the table before them, he said to Mr. Sedg¬ 
wick : 

“Do you recognize that? It is from your table, 
and—and—it is not the only piece I had hidden in 
my pockets. I had not eaten in twenty-four hours 
when I sat down to dinner this evening. I had no 
prospect of another morsel for to-morrow and— 
and—I was afraid of eating my fill—there were 
ladies—and so—and so—” 

They did not let him finish. In a flash they had 
both taken in the room. Not an article which could 
be spared was anywhere visible. His dress-suit was 
all that remained to him of former ease and luxury. 
That he had retained, possibly for just such oppor¬ 
tunities as had given him a dinner to-night. Mr. 
Blake understood at last, and his iron lip trembled. 

“Have you no friends?” he asked. “Was it nec¬ 
essary to go hungry?” 

“Could I ask alms or borrow what I could not 
pay? It was a position I was after, and positions 
do not come at call. Sometimes they come without 


THE THIEF 


291 


It,” he smiled with the dawning of his old-time grace 
on his handsome face, “but I find that one can see 
his resources go, dollar by dollar, and finally, cent 
by cent, in the search for employment no one con¬ 
siders necessary to a man like me. Perhaps if I had 
had less pride, had been willing to take you or any 
one else into my confidence, I might not have sunk 
to these depths of humiliation; but I had not the 
confidence in men which this last half hour has given 
me, and I went blundering on, hiding my needs and 
hoping against hope for some sort of result to my 
efforts. This pistol is not mine. I did borrow this, 
but I did not mean to use it, unless nature reached 
the point where it could stand no more. I thought 
the time had come to-night when I left your house, 
Mr. Sedgwick, suspected of theft. It seemed the last 
straw; but—but—a woman’s look has held me back. 
I hesitated and—now you know the whole,” said he; 
“that is, if you can understand why it was more pos¬ 
sible for me to brave the contumely of such a sus¬ 
picion than to open my pockets and disclose the 
crusts I had hidden there.” 

“I can understand,” said Mr. Sedgwick; “but the 
opportunity you have given us for doing so must 
not be shared by others. We will undertake your 
justification, but it must be made in our own way and 
after the most careful consideration; eh, Mr. 
Blake?” 

“Most assuredly; and if Mr. Clifford will present 
himself at my office early in the morning, we will 
first breakfast and then talk business.” 


292 


FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES 


Young Clifford could only hold out his hand, but 
when, his two friends gone, he sat in contemplation 
of his changed prospects, one word and one only 
left his lips, uttered in every inflection of tenderness, 
hope, and joy. “Edith! Edith! Edith!” 

It was the name of the sweet young girl who had 
shown her faith in him at the moment when his heart 
was lowest and despair at its culmination. 










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